


Bullets and Butterflies

by Faustess



Series: Melt My Heart: An Avengers Saga [2]
Category: Avengers, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Humor, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes and the 21st Century, Butterfly Effect, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Captain America: The First Avenger Compliant, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Decisions, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Protagonist, Friday is a good bro, Hiding, Identity Issues, Love Letters, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Original Female Character, Plot, Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), References to Norse Religion & Lore, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Slow Dancing, Slow Romance, Spies & Secret Agents, Swearing, Tags Are Hard, Therapy, Trust Issues, Wartime Romance, Wet Dream, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-03-31 04:46:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 45,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13967619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faustess/pseuds/Faustess
Summary: Steve’s frown of disapproval was a palpable presence making its way through the tight clusters of people in the small taverna.  His life would be a lot easier if he just ignored the girl and went back to drinking himself into a stupor.  Bucky glanced up at her again.  What a dame…. On the other hand, weeks – possibly months of Steve going off on not picking up local girls, loose lips, etc….  She winked.His feet moved.  Screw Steve and his lectures.  He held out his hand to her.  She smiled and placed her hand in his, standing.  “Hi.”That single decision, the decision not to turn away, ripples through time.





	1. January 1944 - Loose Lips

**Author's Note:**

> I (obviously) don't own the Marvel characters. There's a lot more to come and I'll add tags as I think of them. Hope you enjoy! :D You don't have to have read the other fics in the series to enjoy this one, but they do fit together and I think if you like the others chances are likely you'll like this one too (and vice versa).
> 
> Also, I didn't translate all the French and Italian phrases since either they're common enough in English to figure out or because Bucky doesn't understand. I know less French than Bucky and almost zero Italian. All translation errors belong to me and Bing Translator (seems more conversational sometimes than Google Translate). I'll be glad to fix the errors if you let me know!

Having returned from the successful destruction of the HYDRA base in Strasbourg, the Howling Commandos were set to enjoy a brief R&R in Portograuro, Italy before heading back into the fray. Captain Rogers and General Phillips had spent all day discussing – not arguing, of course – where they’d be sent next.

From the amount of shouting, Sergeant Bucky Barnes did not envy either of the men. Or Agent Peggy Carter for that matter. His job at present was to wait for orders and then say, ‘yessir!’ to Steve. Still getting used to that (talk about bizarre…). The other Commandos were taking the time before they headed into town to write to their families or sweethearts. Not having either of those, Bucky wrote in a cheap notebook – just to write.

Still Stevie had come through. Saved his life too. It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful – far from it. Just hard to wrap his head around. Getting captured, Zola’s experiments…. _At least the injections hadn’t been fatal_ – silver lining to all that horse shit. Maybe he was in the control group? That’s how science worked, right?

Anyway… at least they’d proven themselves in Strasbourg. And Steve was going to take care of them because he was _Captain fucking America_. He knew better than to laugh at the ridiculous outfit, but _really? **Really?**_ Made it very difficult to take him seriously – especially when he had the ‘serious Steve’ face on. But, being a good soldier and a good friend, he didn’t laugh. Nobody else did either.

Bucky knew that Steve would be horrified and then feel guilty if he found out about these resentful feelings. The crux of the problem was, as far as he could tell, that he’d spent too many years taking care of Steve. _Bringing fucking soup, even._ Had Steve resented needing help? That’s food for thought. Steve was just the last person he wanted taking care of him, that was all. Every once in awhile, he felt like Steve might tie their wrists together with twine, like little kids. That’d be the final straw, that’s for sure. Captain or not, he’d get popped in the kisser.

He chuckled to himself imagining Steve trying to tie their wrists together, and closed his notebook, tucking it in his inside chest pocket. Now that Dugan had finished his letter to his wife, he was freshening up for a night on the town. _Well, what the hell, why not._

Not too bad… a little bay rum and using a comb like he meant it had made a pretty decent improvement in his appearance. Brushed his coat, jacket, and polished his shoes too. Not too shabby, soldier.

The taverna had a brick ceiling, giving it a cozy feel. Tables had been pushed together to make space for dancing. No band, just an old record player that the bar owner’s kid had to keep cranking up to keep the music going. Bucky knew the wine was a little watered down, but he didn’t begrudge the man making some money. No way of knowing how the war was gonna go.

He and Dernier were having a friendly argument via Gabe Jones’ translation. Bucky’s own French had improved to include counting to ten, ‘I don’t speak French,’ and a treasure trove of curses. Jones was trying to make the finer points of Dernier’s argument, which was difficult, as Dernier had drunk more wine than either Bucky or Jones had. That was when he noticed her. The blonde.

She sat next to the kid cranking the record player, handing him a few records to play and chatting with him conversationally.

Jones was perturbed that Bucky’d stopped paying attention, giving him a light cuff on the arm, “Hey, what’s so –” following Bucky’s gaze, “Oh…”

Dernier turned to look too. “ _C’est magnifique…._ ”

Grey wool skirt, camel colored sweater that buttoned at the throat with an open keyhole just below, definitely not evening wear, but _wow_ , what a doll. Her ruby lips and icy blonde hair fell in soft waves around her face. A little like Carole Lombard. And she filled out the sweater sweetly.

The kid said something to her and she looked over at the three of them staring at her like idiots. Her eyebrow arched, seeming amused and fluttered her fingers hello. Like the dopes they were, all three of them waved.

Steve’s frown of disapproval was a palpable presence making its way through the tight clusters of people in the small taverna. His life would be a lot easier if he just ignored the girl and went back to drinking himself into a stupor. Bucky glanced up at her again. _What a dame…._ On the other hand, weeks – possibly months of Steve going off on not picking up local girls, loose lips, etc…. She winked.

His feet moved. Fuck Steve and his lectures. He held out his hand to her. She smiled and placed her hand in his, standing. “Hi.”

Not shy, she said, “Hi.” Bucky couldn’t place her accent.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Italian.”

Smiling, she said, “No one’s perfect. Dance with me?”

Several other couples joined them as they started dancing. He relaxed, dancing he knew. “You speak English?”

“Sure helps, doesn’t it?”

He chuckled, “Guess so…. So, what’s a girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“Waiting for someone.”

“Somebody to dance with?” He smiled, flirting.

“No, I’m working.”

Frowning, “A ‘working girl?’”

She shook her head, not understanding the connotation. “Um…” how do you ask somebody politely if they’re a prostitute? “Like money for…”

Her eyebrows shot up, “Oh! No!” She shook her head, “I’m a – what’s it called? A career girl.” She looked pleased to remember the phrase.

“Like a secretary? A nurse?” She could nurse him back to health anytime.

She laughed lightly, “Something like that, yes.”

“Which is it?”

She smiled mischievously, “If I told you, you’d stop guessing. If you don’t know, you can make up whatever you want about me.”

Bucky thought for just a moment, “That’s a pretty big window.”

Her eyes danced and she raised an eyebrow, “You must have a good imagination.”

He felt himself start to blush. A girl hadn’t make him blush since…. Well, it’d been a long time. He’d been a kid.

She just batted her eyes at him, playing innocent and knowing she wasn't fooling him. Enjoying the game. Looking in the direction of the bar, she said, “Your captain doesn’t look very happy.”

He rolled his eyes, “Yeah, he’s not happy unless he’s fightin’ the good fight, you know?”

Nodding, she said, “I do.” Looking at him again, “Are you the same?”

Bucky grinned, “Nah, I like to stop and smell the roses.”

She tipped her head back and laughed, “Is that what you’re doing?”

At first, he was a little offended that she laughed when he’d been flirting – trying to flirt – with her. But she was smiling at _him._ Watching _him_ with those laughing silver-grey eyes. He shrugged, “Have to. I like the full range of imaginary experiences.” 

She laughed again. Was he imagining it or was she squeezing his hand tighter? Her eyes flicked over his shoulder, then back to him. She kissed him lightly on the lips, “A kiss to build a dream on.”

She walked away toward a man shorter than she was, with a greasy-looking combover. He looked to be scolding her, though he couldn’t tell what they were saying in their rapid-fire Italian. When the guy tried to take her arm and she raised her voice, all the GIs in the bar turned toward them. The guy lowered his hands, but glared at her as they walked out of the taverna.

Steve walked up to him, “Who was that?”

Bucky was still wondering whether or not he should go after her or not. “Huh? Oh, I, uh... didn’t get her name.”

Steve rolled his eyes. The ‘don’t mess with local girls’ lecture was coming. Probably followed closely by the ‘if anybody in this Italian backwater is a spy, it’s her!’ speech, with the ‘loose lips’ one right on the heels of the first two. Bucky put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Hold that thought, pal. Be right back.”

Escape. He looked down the street. Canal on one side, buildings on the other. He thought he could see some figures ahead on the bridge over the water, but it was too dark to see clearly. No street lights. He walked farther toward the figures. Close enough to hear the edge of conversation, but still too far to make out anything distinct. Not that he’d understand them anyway.

At the end of the bridge, he could hear the man chuckling to himself, squeezing her upper arm. Leering at her.

Something in the expression on her face told him to wait. To see how this played out first. She was utterly unafraid. Determined. She said, “No. Non capisci.” _Capische_ he knew, it meant ‘understand, punk?’ He grew up in Brooklyn after all.

The man’s smile faltered and she spoke faster. The man stammered, shaking his head.

“Dimmi,” her voice commanding.

The guy croaked out something and she nodded, satisfied. _Fuckin’ A. A spy? Really?_ Steve hadn’t even given that speech yet and he was already right. Goddamnit.


	2. January 1944 - Sink Ships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient! <3
> 
> So this ended up a little (lot) steamier than I'd originally planned. Just a heads up if you're not into that. ;)
> 
> Also, apparently most of the records available at that time only had one song on each side (78 rpm), but her record player is a RCA Victor Special Model K, Portable Electric Phonograph, ca. 1935. Very shiny. I love it and wish I had one!

As the guy beat feet away from the blonde, she looked in his direction. “ _Mostrati._ I know you’re there.” [ _Show yourself._ ]

Bucky debated for a second, but stepped around the stone post of the bridge, hands half up – a good-natured surrender. “I – uh, thought you might be in trouble.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Why do you have your hands up?”

“You know – don’t shoot?”

Laughing she said, “I don’t like guns,” and walked over to him.

“Not sure that’s reassuring. Under the circumstances.” Out of habit, he offered her his arm and she looped her arm in his.

She smiled at him and he realized belatedly that she was nearly as tall as he was. “You don’t need to worry about me. We’re on the same side.” She frowned a little, “I suppose that’s what you’d expect anyone in… um… my line of work to say.”

Bucky had no reason to believe her. On the other hand, he had no specific reason not to believe her. They walked along the moonless streets. He stopped, realizing it was January and she didn’t have a coat. He moved his arm to take off his jacket. _Career girl, huh?_

She looked at him, “Are you going to turn me in to your Captain?”

“What? I was gonna offer you my jacket.” Handing her his jacket, he ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. About the rest.”

Putting on his jacket, she said, “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. It’s _sospetto_ – suspicious.”

“James Barnes. The guys call me Bucky.”

“Sophie Violet.” _Vee-oh-let._

Bucky looked at her skeptically, but offered her his arm again. “You just made that up.”

“I did _not_ just make that up,” Sophie said matter-of-factly.

“Then you made it up a while ago,” Bucky muttered.

She surprised him by laughing and squeezing his arm. “All this and smart too.” She kissed him on the cheek.

“Then why do I feel like such a chump?”

She shook her head, not understanding the word.

He opened and closed his mouth a couple times. Usually he didn’t talk about himself much with women. They usually liked a guy who listened and was charming the rest of the time. “A fool. An idiot.” She could be leading him into a dark alley to send him to his maker for all he knew.

Sophie frowned, “If you want, you can go back to your Captain. There’s the taverna.” And she had brought him back – they’d just taken a less-direct route and he hadn’t noticed.

Bucky looked over at Steve who was waiting in front of the taverna, arms crossed over his chest like an angry bouncer.

She continued, “If you want to, though, you can come to my room. My landlady is deaf.”

He coughed, stunned.

“For coffee or a bedtime drink?”

Clearing his throat, he said, “A nightcap. That’s the word you’re lookin’ for.” He was glad it was dark. Maybe she didn’t see him blush this time.

Sophie nodded, “Well?”

Angry Captain Rogers or cute blonde spy with legs like Ginger Rogers. Well, chances were good that Steve would still be mad later. Might as well make all the lectures worth it. “What the hell. You probably make a better drink.” He smiled and winked at her.

She studied his face a moment, then pulled his arm in another direction. “This way.”

After a few minutes, they arrived outside a sand-colored building with small square windows. Sophie put her finger to her lips.

Bucky whispered, “Thought you said she was deaf.”

She touched her finger to his lips and whispered, “Shh. Wait here.” She opened the latch and stepped inside. A few minutes later, she opened the door and motioned him inside.

He stepped in to a sitting room with exposed timber ceilings. The furniture had probably never been much to look at and had faded considerably from its hey-day, now shabby and threadbare. Sophie led him through this room into the kitchen at the back.

“All this yours?”

Sophie smiled and shook her head, “No, the kitchen is shared among all the lodgers. My room is upstairs. It’s a closet with a bed inside.” Light danced in her eyes, “Really, it’s too small for entertaining. I may have lured you here under false pretenses.” She bit her lip.

“There’s no coffee?”

She relaxed a bit and stood to make coffee. “That we have. Italian or American style?”

Bucky’d had the Italian espresso before. Real shock after countless cups of lunch counter joe. He relaxed into the back of the chair, stretching out his legs in front of him, watching her. “Make it how you like it, doll.”

Looking over her shoulder at him, she asked, “Watching for poison?”

He shook his head, “Just watchin’.” Was it his imagination or did she just blush?

She got out the cups and set them on the table, waiting for the coffee to percolate. “I’ll be right back.”

Bucky listened to the pot bubble and hiss until she returned several minutes later.

Sophie peeped around the corner, “Close your eyes.”

“Am I gonna regret it?”

She laughed, “No. Now you are being an idiot.”

He closed his eyes and half-laughed, “Thanks for pointin’ it out.” He could hear her move the cups to the table and pour the coffee. And she set something else on the counter where the cups had been. Paper rustled. The low moan of trumpets followed by the low melody of clarinets. Bucky opened his eyes to the shiniest record player he’d ever seen. And Billie Holiday?

Sophie had the music turned down, so it was less likely to disturb anyone else. Sitting down across from him, she said, “I hope you like it. Most of my records were broken, but I have a few.”

“I do like it. Didn’t know Billie Holiday made it this far.” He sat up, resting his elbows on the table and sipped his coffee.

“I love her music.” Sophie sighed dreamily, “So sad. Even the happy ones.”

“‘Cause you know it won’t last.”

Sophie nodded enthusiastically, “Yes!” She squeezed his forearm for emphasis. “You know French?”

Bucky shook his head, “Not really.” When she looked disappointed, he said, “Sorry.”

She didn’t remove her hand, “No, I just thought you might like Edith Piaf. Some of hers are very sad too. I’ve got one, but it’s too sad for right now.”

“What else you got?”

She handed him a short stack of records. Billie Holiday’s “They Can’t Take That Away From Me” and “I’ve Got a Date with a Dream;” Edith Piaf’s “ _Le brun et la blond_ ;” Ethel Waters’ “Stormy Weather;” Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood;” and Beethoven’s 5th Symphony.

He looked through them. “These just things you found around?”

She shook her head, “I bought them when I lived in Paris… Except Beethoven. I got that one in Lucerne. Switzerland.”

He held up the Edith Piaf record, “This is the sad one? What’s it about?”

Sophie nodded and sighed, “A woman with two lovers –” She started to take the record from him, her hands partially covering his.

“A blond and _brun_ – that’s brunette?”

She nodded again, “Yes… she loves them both and… it doesn’t go well.”

Bucky looked over the record between them, “You in love with a blond?”

She shook her head no.

He smiled, “Then we got nothing to worry about.” He stood up and put the record on, offering her his hand.

When she looked reluctant he said, “Not superstitious are you?”

She stood up, “Only with some things…”

Not really a song for dancing, she fit herself neatly in his arms and they swayed gently together. As the song finished, Sophie looked at him, “Isn’t there anything you’re afraid of?”

Sophie looked so serious that Bucky said, “You first.”

Looking over his shoulder, she pressed her lips together into a thin line, then looked at him, “Being alone – all alone…. Not _feeling_ alone. And…” Her eyes flickered, the grey darker in the dimly lit room. “Don’t laugh.”

For standing nearly as tall as he was, she looked small – as if she’d folded in on herself – and clearly frightened. Bucky gathered her in, holding her and shook his head. “Anything scares you that much ain’t funny.”

“The dark. Not the night, not shadows. When it’s so dark you can’t see your hands in front of you. Like there’s nothing. Nothing.” Sophie shuddered. He kissed her forehead and she tilted her head up and kissed him firmly, urgently, almost like she wanted to make sure he was real.

Reason and logic stumbled aside. Bucky cupped her cheek and kissed her back, her lips parting under his. Music forgotten. She moaned softly.

She whispered, “Ne me laisse pas partir,” [ _Don’t let me go._ ] and held him tightly. Her eyes the grey of clouds before a storm, gold flecks from the oil lamp looking like sparks. He didn’t understand her words and shook his head. She misunderstood his head shake and sighed in relief and kissed him again, one arm around his neck, her other hand rubbing his chest over his shirt.

He groaned and pressed against her, hands sliding down her hips and over her bottom, pulling her closer.

In a low, husky voice, Sophie asked, “Veux-tu coucher avec moi ce soir?” _…sleep with me tonight?_

That part he understood - at least mostly. He pulled her lip with his teeth the noise from his throat almost a growl. She answered, biting his lips, first one then the other, then just below his jaw.

Then, disentangling herself from him, she grabbed her record player with one hand and with the other, took his hand and led him out the kitchen door to a small stone building behind the main house. Bucky grabbed the records, following.

She unlocked the door, entered, and quickly shut it when both of them were inside. Much chillier than the kitchen with the coals burning low in the stove. No drafts, though. Once inside, she set her stuff down and slipped off his jacket, hanging it over the back of a small wooden chair.

Other than the chair, the room had a small cot and a chest of drawers. “This your room?”

Sophie shook her head, “No. The gardener’s. There hasn’t been a gardener for some years, though.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Bucky asked, “This where you… um…” This didn’t stop him from curling his arms around her and letting his hands roam over her hips.

Sophie melted against him, “Bring all the men I dance with?”

Watching her lips, “Something like that.”

“Would it change anything?” Her hands splayed across his chest.

He thought for a moment. She smelled like lemons and lavender. “No…” Taking a breath, he continued wistfully, “It’d just be somethin’ to be special to somebody. And it’d _really_ be somethin’ to be _your_ special somebody.” Now embarrassment cut off his words. Couldn’t have been thirty seconds ago. _Course not._

She kissed him on his jawline. “ _Réservé à_ James Barnes? Just for you?”

He shrugged, still embarrassed. “I dunno.” He bit his lips, “Sorry, being an idiot again.... Just met you an hour ago? Two?”

Running her fingers through his hair, she looked at him, “What if I promise to write to you? _Seulement toi._ Only you. You don’t have to answer if it makes your Captain angry, but I won’t stop unless you ask me to.”

His voice a little ragged, “Say it again?”

“ _Seulement toi._

" _Seulement toi._ " She kissed him lightly. “ _Seulement toi._ ”

Bucky shivered under her kiss, doubts gone – at least for the moment. Slid his hands under her skirt, up the side of her thighs. At his renewed interest, Sophie started unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it open as she went. She slipped his uniform shirt off and ran her hands under his undershirt, while kissing his neck.

He palmed the straps of her garter clips, slipping a couple fingers under a strap on each side. She moaned into the side of his neck and bit the skin in the hollow of his collarbone. The back of his leg touched the chair and he sat, pulling her up into his lap, skirt around her waist.

Rubbing her thighs, he looked at the straps and buckles, unashamed. “Can I?” Some girls were very protective of their stockings. She nodded and watched his thick fingers fumble with the clasps. He heard her shoes fall onto the stone floor below.

Once the clasps were undone, she stood in front of him and put a foot on his thigh, so he could roll them down one at a time. The first he rolled down and set aside, running his hands up her bare leg and kissing her knee. The second he rolled down more slowly, letting his fingers trail down the back of her thigh and calf. Kissed her knee and then spread smaller kisses up the inside of her thigh. Her fingers twined in his hair, and she whispered to him in a broken mix of French, Italian, and English.

Groaning in frustration when she straddled him, not letting him kiss between her legs, he moaned when she started unbuckling his belt – or trying to. He pulled the end to loosen it and her fingers were more adept with the buttons. She pressed the heel of her hand against the hard bulge of his cock as she worked the buttons.

He shifted under her and held her hips, running his hands over her bottom and squeezing. Finished with the buttons, she slid a hand into his pants to stroke him and kissed him again, sucking on his lower lip and then biting it. Slowly increasing the pressure on his lip with her teeth until it hurt and just started to bleed.

Bucky pulled up her sweater and dropped it alongside her stockings, then unfastened her brassiere that was only becoming because it was hers. He kissed indiscriminately across her chest and over her breasts. Kissing, licking, and biting his way from one side to the other and back again. Her whispers had become almost a purr as she spoke to him in French, which apparently came more easily to her than Italian or English.

He scooped her up as he stood, and she curled her legs around his waist. Only a few steps to the small bed and he laid her down. He kicked away his pants and boxers and pulled the undershirt over his head as she lifted her hips to push down the silk of her underwear.

Kneeling between her legs, he wished they had a light, so he could see her more clearly than the starlight outside permitted. She drew him down to her by digging her heels into the backs of his legs until he got close enough for her to wrap her legs around him.

Sliding into her was almost enough on its own to send him over the edge. He kissed her and she worried his sore lip and dug her fingernails into his back, leaving ten half-moon marks on the back of his shoulders. Then, as they built their rhythm, she kissed and bit the tops of his shoulders, leaving a trail of love bites behind her, an arm curled around him.

Her other hand slipped between her legs between them, fingers moving deftly. Every time he got too close he tried thinking of something to take his mind off the building desire to ram every inch inside her and come. His mind raced the fine line between not enough to tamp down that desire momentarily and too much distraction. The ones that worked the best ended up being his squad mates cleaning their toenails (disgusting, but a brief second of that thought worked pretty well) or Steve’s scowl (also, best not to linger too long there).

Then Sophie arched her back, moaning, squeezing his cock inside her. That in itself would have been enough in a moment, but she kissed his shoulder again and her lips were cold, like a whiskey on the rocks. The shiver of cold that shot through him pushed him over the edge and he came before he could pull out or warn her.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but she kissed him gently and moved so he could lay next to her. He kissed her shoulder and then sat up, leaning forward to snag his jacket, to fish out his cigarettes and lighter. “Smoke?”

“I’ll share yours.”

He pulled up the blanket and leaned with his back against the chilly stone wall of the bed’s alcove. Sophie nestled in against him. Bucky said, “Steve used to have breathing trouble - weak lungs - and I couldn’t smoke around him.”

“Steve?”

“My captain. We grew up together.”

“What does he say now?”

“Not much, but he doesn’t like it.” A smile curled at the corners of his mouth, “He’s very black and white with right and wrong.”

After a companionable silence, enjoying their smoke, Sophie retrieved a small bottle from under the bed. “I have to hide this from Nonna.” She made a gesture of drinking with her thumb and fist. She handed him the bottle.

“Smells like lemons,” he said, taking a swig. Sweet, lemony, and strong.

“Limoncino. I think in the south they call it limoncello.” She drank, and they shared another cigarette as they drank.

Sophie traced the lines of the muscles on his chest and stomach. “When do you have to go back?”

Bucky sighed, “Hafta be back before sunrise.” Almost ten miles away. That was gonna be a long and lonely hike.

“Will your carriage turn back into a pumpkin then?” she grinned, her eyes sparkling in the starlight that shone in through the windows.

“An’ my dress’ll turn back to rags.” He almost said it with a straight face, but then laughed at the end.

She stroked his cheek, “I like the way you laugh.”

“I like you. Even your made up name.” He also liked that she didn’t seem self-conscious about nudity, though it was pretty dark.

She borrowed his lighter to check the time on her watch. “We’ve got a couple hours before we have to leave.”

“You wanna walk me home?”

“Everyone around here knows where your camp is. I want to make sure you get there safely.”

“What about you?”

“It’ll be daylight by then.”

Bucky nodded slowly, more in acknowledgement than agreement. Also, he wanted more time with her. Another three, four hours with her? If he were Steve, he’d tell her to stay here and then get mad before grudgingly accepting (and being glad for) her company. Might as well avoid the conflict. “All right. But you’ve gotta write right away so I know you’re okay.”

“Okay _nonna._ ”

“What’s that mean?”

She laughed, “Grandma. You aren’t a warrior, you’re a worrier,” Sophie giggled.

He snorted, which would’ve been embarrassing, except her joke was terrible. Laughing, he said, “That’s the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”

She beamed, “You laughed.”

And they spent their last hour in bed together chatting, laughing, and teasing each other. Then they cleaned up a bit and got dressed again. She put away her records in the storage space in lid of the record player and they went back into the kitchen of the main house.

While Sophie put away her record player and got her coat, he poured them each another cup of long-cold coffee. When she came back downstairs, she cut a couple of chunks of bread and made sandwiches with slices of a sausage that looked to him like salami. After their late night snack, he washed the dishes and she dried them and put them away and they started their walk back to the base.


	3. January to March 1944 - The Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those of you waiting patiently for their letters, here's the first group of them. <3
> 
> I added one more letter. 4/11/2018 :D  
> The recovery part is coming, just establishing some of the backstory first. If there's anything in particular you'd like to see, let me know and I'll see if I can work it in. :) I love comments and kudos!

I'm gonna dance with a dream  
We'll dance on air  
I'm gonna speak to a dream  
And tell him I care

And when the evening is over  
I'll kiss him goodnight and then  
I'll have a date with a dream  
And meet him all over again  
\-- Harry Revel, Mack Gordon

 

12 January 1944

Caro B,

I didn’t know how to start this letter. Everything too formal, too informal, too sentimental, or not sentimental enough. I hope you can forgive me and my clumsy letters.

I am still laughing that your Captain was waiting for you when we arrived. I thought he’d say, ‘Where have you been all night, young man?’ and shake his finger or tell you that you were breaking your mother’s heart. In case he did after I left, I am sure you do no such thing – I’m sure she’s proud that you’re fighting for your country and for a free Europe.

As I said before, you don’t have to write back if you (or your superior officers) think it’s best not to. I don’t want you to think that’s why I’m writing to you. I hope I won’t feel so nervous writing the next one. I wish I had something to send along, but you’ll have to settle for knowing I’m thinking about you as I struggle with writing in English.

Your Sophie

 

 

January 14, 1944

Sophie,

Turns out they don’t mind if I write, but everything in or out gets censored, for what that’s worth. Steve said you wouldn’t really write, but then you did, and he’s been sore about it all day like you wrote just to spite him. It’s kind of hilarious. He’s a good guy though. He’s just trying to do his best to get the job done and get us all home in one piece. My mother wanted me to be a priest. Hoped, I guess. I don’t think she ever really believed I was cut out to be a man of God.

Letter writing is hard. I’m reading what I already wrote and thinking ‘who’s this punk & why’s he writing to my girl?’ Life here is not that interesting at the moment. Maybe next time I’ll make something up to make you laugh, ‘cause you do not want to know what me and the guys find funny here. You’ll think less of me, I promise (sorry).

Yours,  
JBB

PS- I just got another letter from yesterday! Are you writing every day?

 

 

20 January 1944

Caro James,

I can only imagine the people reading your letters must read very slowly, as I just received your first letter today almost a week later. To answer your question, I thought I should write as often as I am able to, but not as often as I think of you because if I did, I’d have time for nothing else.

Nonna hired a new gardener. I think he’s close to 100 and I fear for him as he tries to trim the hedges. I think Nonna is in love. Sadly, I will miss out on the new bounty of her table. I will be travelling to Marrakesh soon. If you send your letters to La Closerie des Lilas in Montparnasse, I will receive them. It’s a café, in case your friends want to know.

Your Sophie

PS- I am glad there’s something there that makes you laugh. Whatever that may be. 

 

 

February 7, 1944

Sophie,

I miss you. So glad to come back to a stack (a stack!) of your letters. I’m trying not to read them all at once. Did you use perfume on one? They were all bundled together and smell fantastic. Can I admit something? Lemons and coffee remind me of you. Even just smelling them.

The dates you sent are popular – thank you! The guys are a bunch of whiny punks and begged until I shared. Even Steve finally relented and had one. Hope you were sitting down – I almost fainted too.

Thanks for sending the photos. Dugan asked why you’d send a photo of your room at the guest house. I told him it was to show off the fancy tiles on the wall. Been thinking a lot about those tiles.... Imagination – blessing or curse? Someday we’ll have to go together on a trip and visit all the places we’ve been over here. That’ll probably take a while now that I’m thinking on it.

Still missing you,  
JBB

 

 

12 February 1944

Mon chèr,

How is that? J'adore Maroc, but I am leaving her soon. I will be visiting some friends in France for a few weeks, then moving on again. I am so glad you returned safely from your mission. I do worry about you and your – let’s say ‘taste for adventure?’

Also, you haven’t really been bored until you’ve bet something of real value on a snail race. Please no complaints. Today I received several of your letters in a bundle. There’s too many now to keep under my pillow – the bump is too uncomfortable. I am keeping them with Mlles. Holiday and Waters.

Please give M. Dernier my thanks for taking your photo. I owe him a bottle of wine when you have your next leave. I can’t believe it has only been a month. Also, in response to your letter from 17 January – please rest assured that there is not enough ink in Europe to write to all the men your Captain seems to think I must ‘know.’ Has he purchased ink lately? Or postage? As you can attest, I am not in fact, made of money.

Seulement toi,

Sophie  
Xoxo

 

 

February 14, 1944

Hi doll,

Can’t write long, but I wanted to send you a quick note for Valentine’s Day. 

[enclosed: a heart-shaped card with a blushing blonde Campbell's kid-like cherub mermaid with the caption ‘You “Mermaid” Fer Me… Water You Gonna Do About It?’]

When he saw me pick up this card, Steve said if you still write to me there’s something fishy going on. With a straight face. I still don’t know if he was kidding or not. I think he was serious, which makes it funnier.

Jokes aside, I’m crazy about you, kid. I hope you like the rest of your gift.

No good without you,

JBB  
[also enclosed: a 78 rpm record of Billie Holiday’s “All of Me”]

 

 

14 February 1944

Mon chèr James,

I found something at the USO store that made me think of you and had to send it. Happy Valentine’s Day. Also sending more dates since they were so popular. 

[enclosed: a Valentine card with a jar of mustard (male because he’s wearing pants) leering at a steaming hot dog on a toasted bun (female because she has eyelashes and high heels) with the caption: A “Hot Tip” for my Valentine… “Hot Dawg” Baby! I “Mustard-mit” You Have “What It Takes” And That Means “IT”!]

No one adds spice to my life the way you do. (Sorry, I couldn’t help myself! Still, it’s true!) xoxo

Always yours,

Sophie

 

 

February 20, 1944

Ma petite sirène, [ _My little mermaid,_ ]

I gave Dernier a full pack of cigarettes to tell me how to say that and he still laughed at me. Better than fille de le poussin – the best I could come up with. I don’t think I’ll get harassed too much unless we have fish in the mess, but that’s not likely.

I love the card you sent – laughed until I got a stitch in my side. Steve asked what was so funny and I showed him. He said we deserve each other. Think that’s as close to a blessing as we’re gonna get from him, sweetheart.

I did hear some good news – we’re going on leave “sometime soon,” but I don’t know when exactly or where. Probably won’t until we get there. When I can tell you, I will. Have to hope that you’ll be in a spot where we can see each other. God, I miss being able to touch you, talk to you.

Still your idiot,

James  
PS- Tell me more about the snail races. (I’m that bored).

 

 

22 February 1944

Mon chèr James,

Received your card and the record made it safely! I love it! Thank you so much! I very much would like to “take the rest” of you too. Consider my letters layaway payments. 

I am looking out the window at my friend’s house wondering how it’s possible the sun can shine so brightly when I miss you so much. As I wrote that, I had the thought that maybe you were wishing me to have a sunny, bright day, so I’ll try to stop resenting the sun’s cheerfulness.

You’ll think I’m superstitious, but I pray every night for the All-Father to protect you. Have you seen any ravens? When I look into the night sky, I find Orion the Hunter. Knowing he and his dogs watch over both of us makes me feel like you are not so far away. Feu, you will think I’m a twit, but I have no time to write another. I’ll listen to the record you sent again and sleep.

With kisses from your little fool,  
Sophie

 

 

February 25, 1944

Hi Beautiful,

You already know I miss, you, so I’m skipping ahead. I’ll be on leave March 5-15, don’t know where yet though. By the way, thanks for explaining how to run a good snail race. I’m sure when it warms up we’ll have a few. Not sure if we’ll use your betting system, though. Also thank you for sending the deck of cards, though after one night, none of the guys will play poker with me anymore, so it’s all rummy and bridge now.

Been reading whatever falls into my lap too. Read The Once and Future King about King Arthur as a kid. Not bad. Read a couple of Agatha Christie mysteries and Dashiell Hammett’s The Thin Man twice. There’s only a couple that I really wish I could’ve kept: The Hobbit – fantastic (just have to leave it there or I’ll use too much paper) – and the other’s The Prisoner of Zenda, Anthony Hope. Fights, secret identities, and winning the heart of a princess fair – what’s not to love?

Fingers crossed I’ll see you soon,  
James 

 

 

1 March 1944

Mon chèr James,

Does it bother you I’m not so creative with my greetings? Ah well. I should warn you about a few things before you start imagining too much. I am not a good cook – I buy everything from shops or restaurants. I’ve tried and tried and I’ve failed every time. Also, I dislike summer time. The sweltering, relentless heat of the sun withers me to my marrow and I hate it. The third thing is that I’m not very good at ‘woman’s touches.’ Homemaking, I guess. I clean up after myself, but I don’t embroider pillows or look forward to quiet evenings with my sewing basket. I mend because I have to, not because I enjoy it.

Sorry – I’ve just endured another lecture from my cousins (Nanette and her daughter Celine) about how I’ll never get married at this rate. That no man wants a woman who can’t cook and who doesn’t look forward to having a house to keep (husband, cat, dog, and half a dozen children included). I’ve traveled a long time and there’s always something new to see – even in the places I’ve already been before. Do you understand? I would love to spend as long as it takes to visit the places you’ve been – to show you where I’ve been. That sounds wonderful! I don’t care how long it will take. For you, I’d even travel by train (slow, hideous behemoths that they are).

I miss you too, my dearest. A while ago you mentioned lemons and coffee – I smile every time I have some. I should confess that the smell of bay rum and Lucky Strikes remind me of you, which is unfortunate because they’re very popular with Americans (not unfortunate because I think of you so often, but because I turn to look every time – just in case).

Speaking of Americans, I’ll be seeing some in a few days. The only thing worse than trains (aside from the horrors of war, etc… - obv.) are meetings. I’m their ‘man’ on the ground, in the field, but they never listen to me, just talk on and on and on. I think the number of stripes has to do with how long they can talk without taking a breath. This is getting so long I think I’ll need another stamp. Maybe I’ll get promoted?

Your Sophie.

 

 

March 4, 1944

Hi Sweetheart,

Wanted to let you know we’re going to Britain for leave! Ten days! I can’t wait! The freedom’s relative, but it’s better than drills in the cold. I know it’s a lot to ask for, but I hope that I’ll be able to see you soon. Also, in regard to your layaway plan, by the time the war’s over, you’ll have a controlling share in J.B. Barnes Co. 

Do you know that the only constellations I know are the Big Dipper (is that Ursa Major or Ursa Minor – I can never remember) and Orion. Didn’t know he had constellation hunting dogs too. I’m not sure I can tell the difference between a crow and a raven. I know what crows look like – there’s always some around, but they’re pretty common I think? (Birds and stars are not my specialty, doll).

Yours,  
James.

PS- Another copy of The Prisoner of Zenda made it my way, so I’ve got everything I need except you. Xo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I have some ideas for the rest and I have it planned out where they'll meet in the past (to us, faithful fans of the future) and some ideas of what they'll do in the future, but if you have any ideas, throw them out there! I need inspiration! :D
> 
> The quotation from the beginning is from the song "I've Got a Date with a Dream" by Harry Revel and Mack Gordon, recorded by Billie Holiday in 1938. Billie Holiday's version of "All of Me" was recorded in 1941. Also, the valentines were actual real cards that I found online.


	4. March 1944 - Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite couple meets again. <3
> 
> I need to know - do you guys think I should spend more time in the past or are you ready to move into the 21st century?? I'm having trouble deciding. Let me know!!! :D Pleeeeeease??

On 7th March, Sophie Violet sat in the conference room listening to the men around her argue with one another over the intelligence she’d brought in. None of them asked her about it, of course, though all of them knew she was the one who’d gathered and verified the information. Her recommendations for how to deal with the situation at Kronborg Castle on the northeastern tip of the Danish island, Zealand, were straightforward and likely foolproof – unless the Americans mucked it up by ignoring them or the Brits made the mistake of trying to take it on themselves.

Also, she disliked the bland uniform she had to wear in the office. The greenish brown skirt suit with its wide lapels flattered her figure, but did very little to stop the Colonels and Generals around her from pinching her bottom, staring at her chest, or asking her to bring coffee. She did not bring them coffee or refreshments and thus they mentally dismissed her.

Sophie did enjoy her Very-British Agent Name, though: Verity Sweet. The cadre of names she’d accumulated at this point could probably populate a small girls’ school. Most of them had the same initials or sounded similar, but the group at the Montparnasse café, La Closerie des Lilas, called her La Dame V, which she found both endearing and entertaining. _C'est dramatique_. She liked it so much that she gave the name to one of the cats on her “cousin” Nanette’s farm too. It helped that the cat strutted very regally and had a large black v-shaped mark on her back.

However, Sophie also enjoyed the company of one of her MI5 counterparts attached to the American unit that would – in theory – complete the mission she’d outlined. Being one of the few female MI6 officers who did not spend long periods of time deep undercover had its perks – one of the biggest, being able to get together periodically with Agent Peggy Carter.

The clock ticked as another minute went past. 12:57 PM. Well past lunch. Now the Colonel to her left was talking about how his guy, Captain America…. Blah, blah, blah. _Really? Captain America?_ Americans named things like small children do - like a stuffed bear named ‘Bear’ or a spotted dog named ‘Spot.’ Some soldier in a red, white, and blue striped suit = Captain America. She fully understood the propaganda aspect, but it made her tired and she was developing a headache from all the table pounding going on around her and a distinct lack of lunch.

Colonel Phillips turned to her and smacked the table (again), “Are we boring you, Agent Sweet?”

“Not at all Colonel. I think you’re absolutely right. The Howling Commandos _are_ the best unit the Allies have for this mission.” She turned to look at the other grumbling gentlemen around the table, “They’ve proven themselves in Austria and Poland. The Commandos have the advantages of a small group that doesn’t need a great deal of outside mission support, as we’ve discussed. And most importantly, they’ve already encountered some of the weapons HYDRA has at its disposal.”

Anticipating further arguments from her British superiors, she added, pressing her finger into the tabletop for emphasis, “And while we could pull in and brief another team, I think that would disrupt other field operations that are equally critical.” Then to placate egos, “Of course, the final decision isn’t mine to make, but you did ask for my recommendation and Phillips’ team is the best HYDRA recon, recovery, and sabotage asset the Allies have.” Exactly what she’d stated in her report.

“Aside from yourself, Agent Sweet.” The balding man with an unassuming moustache at the head of the table said. He’d spoken very little during the grueling hours of chest-thumping, his words now indicated that a decision was imminent.

Sophie, aka Agent Verity Sweet, nodded her thanks, “Thank you, sir.”

Major-General Sir Stewart Graham Menzies, head of MI6, the mustachioed man in question, folded his hands on the table. “The Strategic Scientific Reserve is an _Allied_ operation, not American, not British – or French. We have to collaborate and utilize our manpower as efficiently as we can.” He made eye contact with the British military personnel at the table, “Our men in the USSR will stay put keeping an eye on Leviathan. Pulling them out now or vetting a new team is too risky. Captain Rogers and the Howling Commandos have proven themselves and will be briefed on Operation Horatio.”

Colonel Phillips hid his surprise fairly well, but appeared to have been anticipating a much longer argument. Ready to defend his men. As the group split up for lunch (finally) before tackling other issues in the afternoon, Phillips turned to her, “Young lady, do you have a moment?”

Sophie looked at Major-General Menzies (known as C to those in the Secret Intelligence Service) who nodded to her. “Sure.”

After the other men left the room, Phillips looked at her, unimpressed. “Young lady? Agent Sweet? Now that’s a cute name.” He looked at her patronizingly, “I appreciate you standing up for my boys. And I know you put together this nice report, but what makes you think I’m gonna send a young thing like you into a HYDRA facility?”

She dropped the helpful Agent Sweet demeanor, the amiable Sophie Violet also gone. In their place, just the cold, detached gaze of the persona she thought of as _V_. “Sir, with all due respect, if you’d read my nice report, you’d know I don’t intend to go in with your boys, just brief them on their mission and provide any logistics assistance that they require.” She stood. Even in her stubby, sensible regulation shoes, she stood as tall as he did. “And so there’s no misunderstanding between us, C doesn’t send me to facilities they want anything to come out of.” She held eye contact, “Am I clear?”

Phillips glowered at her for another moment, his wrinkles seeming to multiply exponentially, then apparently satisfied, nodded. She relaxed and offered her hand to shake hands. After a brief pause, likely because the Colonel didn’t often shake hands with women, they shook hands and he said, “I look forward to working with you Agent Sweet,” a pause in thought, “And I appreciate your candor.”

She grinned, the last vestiges of the V persona receding, “I’m so glad we see eye to eye.”

He snorted with a half laugh and held the door for her. Colonel Phillips was not an ass-grabber, so she didn’t mind the chivalry.

Agent Carter sat reading a magazine across the hall from the conference room. “Verity!” The friends hugged. When Phillips was out of earshot, Peggy gave her a knowing look, “Survived another one?”

“Proud to say the only casualty was my patience. I’m famished Peg. Please tell me there’s an oasis on the horizon.”

Peggy laughed, “Even better, my Sweet.” Both women looked at each other and laughed. Peggy handed Sophie/Verity an overcoat and an umbrella. Armed against the elements, the two made their escape into the damp London not-quite-spring.

After walking and chatting for a couple of blocks, Peggy glanced at the woman she knew most often as Verity Sweet, “I can tell you’re dying to ask, so go ahead,” and smiled knowingly.

Verity tried and failed to suppress a bright smile, “How is he Peggy?”

“Waits for the mail like you do – stars in his eyes – and gives Steve a ‘told you so’ look every time there’s letters for him.” Peggy turned to her, “I don’t know what you did to get on Steve’s bad side, but he’s out for blood, Sweet.”

“As far as I can tell, I managed to get his best friend out from under his thumb – that’s it.” Verity shrugged and lowered her voice, “Or else he just doesn’t like spies.” She pouted and brushed away a non-existent tear before winking rakishly.

Peggy squeezed her elbow and tried not to laugh. “Did you have to arm wrestle Phillips?”

“No. Managed to get through without it. Odds on Rogers?”

“60/40.”

“Who’s favor?”

This time Peggy did laugh, “Not telling. But,” opening the door of a pub, “the Americans are paying for lunch.”

Stepping inside, the women closed their umbrellas and hung their coats to dry out. Verity followed Peggy as she wove her way through the crowd of tables and chairs toward a rough-looking group in the back. The men she’d just succeeded in sending into harm’s way – along with her favorite Sergeant. The personal weight of what she’d done, the price she’d purposefully not thought about starting to steal her breath and sting her eyes with unshed tears.

“Peg, give me a minute, I’m just… I need some air.”

Verity walked through the pub and out the rear exit into the alley, taking deep breaths of the chilly air and closed her eyes to try and recover her composure. Her head ached with lingering tension from her meeting, lack of lunch, and trying to stay collected. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to ease the ache and stop the tears that threatened.

“Can’t even look at us after what you’ve done?” an unfamiliar male voice said with contempt.

She looked up to see Captain Steve Rogers. Sighing, she said, “You’ll have to be more specific Captain Rogers. I’m not sure which misdeed you’re referring to.”

Rogers folded his arms, jaw tight with controlled fury. “Leading Bucky on so you can find out more about our unit and pass it on to God knows who.”

She looked at Rogers wearily, “Captain, I’ve had a very long morning and I’m really not – ”

He poked her chest between her breastbone and collarbone. “You made a mistake toying with the guys in my unit. Just disappear – it’s what girls like you are good at.”

Verity stepped back, eyes glittering dangerously, “Rogers if you touch me again, I _will_ lose my temper. I used my binoculars to observe the Commandos and asked a good friend with inside knowledge of the unit to fill in the gaps in my observations. I write to James because I _like_ him – he’s funny, handsome,” she couldn’t help smiling as she thought about him, in spite of her Rogers-oriented anger, “He hangs the moon.”

“Then why –”

Peggy poked her head outside, “Steve, you said you were getting the next round, why are you out here pestering Agent Sweet?”

Steve protested, “I’m not…. Wait – Agent?”

“Poor Verity looks close to tears. Don’t be an idiot. Come inside and carry the beer.”

Steve opened his mouth to protest again.

“No buts. _Inside_.”

Steve glared rebelliously at them both, but then went back inside with Peggy at his heels.

Verity closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. She didn’t hear the door open again, but did hear the voice she’d been longing to hear for nearly two months say, “This crate taken?” James held an umbrella and offered her a cigarette.

She accepted and held the umbrella as he lit it for her, then sat on the crate next to him.

“Carter said you had a rough morning.” He lit his own cigarette.

She nodded.

In her peripheral vision, she could tell he was looking at her. “Don’t let Steve get under your skin, sweetheart.”

She shook her head, “It’s not that… I…”

His expression pensive, he said, “If you’re tryin’ to find the way to tell me that ‘Verity Sweet’ is made up too, you can save your breath.”

A small smile crept its way to her lips and she shook her head again. Seeing the wary look in his eyes, she decided not to avoid the truth. “I’m the intelligence officer who will brief the Commandos on their next mission.”

Quiet for a moment, James nudged her, “Does that mean you out-rank Steve?” Relief apparent in his voice.

She tipped her head back and laughed, “I’ve been worrying that you or one of your friends is going to get killed on the mission I’m sending you on and that’s what you want to know?!” She cupped his cheek and kissed him. “I’ve missed you so much, _mon rêve_ ,” kissed him again, “My dream.”

He draped the arm with the umbrella over her shoulders and closed the gap between them. He raised an eyebrow, “Well?”

Her grey eyes twinkled, “Just for this mission.”

James hugged her and kissed her temple. “Thanks, sweetheart.” He stubbed out his cigarette, then remembered, “I need to get you inside for something to eat or Carter’s gonna have my hide.”

“All right,” she ground out her cigarette, and slipped her arm in his. “I like your hide the way it is, so I’ll let you buy me lunch.” Then she stopped and held his arm, “Wait – did you think I was going to Dear John you?”

Shrugging, he said, “Well, you did walk by without saying hello… and you looked upset….”

“I was. Am. But not about that, I promise.” Verity looked into his grey-blue eyes. Knew what they’d seen on the battlefield, knew his accuracy statistics with both short- and long-range firearms. She even knew his preferred weapons. His shoe size. The warmth that shone in his eyes for _her_ – that was what she’d left out of her report. She’d told C, but no one else on their panel. “I love you.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, “I know you do, doll,” then leaned away, grinning cockily as she tried to slap at his chest in mock annoyance. He caught her hand and threaded his fingers through hers and in a lowered voice said, “Love you too.”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

After lunch, she gave him the tour of St. James Park. Rather, they strolled leisurely behind Peggy and the rest of the Commandos as Carter gave them the tour. At least until the group passed one of the large willow trees next to the water. As the rest of the group admired the view and the first daffodils and primroses of spring, James pulled her behind the tree and kissed her.

“Been wanting to do that –”

She cut him off by kissing him back and wrapping her arms around his neck.

Somewhere in the background, Captain Rogers could be heard protesting with Agent Carter explaining they’d make a circuit around the park and pick up their stragglers then. Jacques Dernier snapping photos of the park and his fellow Commandos.

As the voices of the Commandos drifted farther and farther away into the distance, Barnes kissed along her jaw and smoothed her hair. In a low voice, he asked her, “So what am I supposed to call you? Sophie? Verity? Ma’am?”

With a straight face, she said, “Sir. I believe you address superior officers as ‘Sir,’” but her eyes twinkled with laughter. “I’ll have another name in a few days.”

James sighed, took off his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair, exasperated. Then he looked at her and saw the uncertain expression on her face. He looked through his eyelashes at her and shook his head, “Gotta be better than the last two.”

She poked him in the side, “I thought you liked Sophie.”

“Better than _Verity Sweet_.” He stroked her cheek and kissed her again, “I like _you_.” Kiss. “Just need to know what name to call when you’re havin’ your way with me later.”

Pulling him closer, feigning innocence, “Why not now?”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, “What!”

“Fooled you.” She giggled.

Giving her a sideways glance, he said, “And changin’ the subject.”

She held his hands, “It’s like asking a woman her age. Who’s going to answer that?”

“I think ‘what’s your name?’ is fair to ask.”

The man had a point. She bit her lip, “What if I told you that there’s no one alive who knows my name.”

“Aside from you.”

She nodded.

“But you work for – ”

She whispered, “To them I’m either Verity Sweet, born to a French mother and English father, ‘raised abroad,’ or I’m just a codename.”

In an earnest whisper, he said “But that’s not true.”

She shook her head. “The higher ups don’t care. I’m an asset – their best weapon against HYDRA. The others either don’t care at all or believe the lie.” Thoughtful for a moment, “Except two. Peggy and my friend Ian in Naval Intelligence. He’s told me he’s going to write a book about me someday.”

“Ian?” Barnes’ voice more tense than a moment ago.

“Has too many girls hovering as it is. He’s good at his job. Clever.” James’ expression darkened. She continued, “And like most of my male cohorts, much too full of himself. Not my cup of tea. And he’s got another handicap.”

James raised his eyebrow skeptical that eye candy, _‘clever,’_ charming (he added that one), super-spy Ian had any other flaws other than arrogance. “Yeah?”

“He’s not the handsome, funny Sergeant from Brooklyn I met in Portograuro that I’ve been falling farther and farther for – with,” kiss. “Every” kiss. “Letter” kiss. “He writes.”

“Oh.”

He felt her lips brush the side of his neck, her breath warm on his skin. His hands moved to her hips and she slipped her arms around him. Unfortunately, he could also hear Dugan’s voice booming closer. Pulling away from their kiss James asked, “Am I wearin’ _all_ your lipstick?”

“Almost. Such a libertine.” She winked. They sorted themselves and she reapplied her lipstick with a small compact mirror, finishing moments before the group picked them up for their next destination, a Tower of London tour.


	5. June 2016 - Goodbyes and Hellos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bet you can't tell I wrote this after seeing AIW... :,<
> 
> Let me know what you think! This one isn't done yet... Just moving it closer to the present so we can get on with ignoring AIW. Because that's how I solve MCU problems - by pretending they don't exist! :D

“I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.  
"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”  
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

 

 

 

> December 28, 1944  
>  Hi Sweetheart,
> 
> That gift you wrote about finally put in an appearance! The cookies got a little stale, but if I rest them on top of a hot cup of coffee, they warm up and taste pretty good. Merry Christmas to me!
> 
> Peggy and Phillips have started making plans for after the war. They say Hitler’s on the ropes. Hope they know what they’re talking about. When this goddamn war is over, I want to take you to New York and show you around. Maybe get a row house where you can not cook and not embroider pillows? I’ll even learn how to cook – maybe we can learn together? Promise I won’t disappoint you. Or we could just keep the Chinese and Italian restaurants open singlehanded.
> 
> Still haven’t told Steve that you said yes. Haven’t even told him that I was going to ask. Morita knows, but that’s it. I take too much ribbing from those guys to let them in on the good stuff. Did I tell you I had a dream we were in Bruges again? Only this time I slipped and fell in the canal instead of just having my hands shaking so bad I couldn’t open the damn box. I still think you’re nuts for wanting to spend your life with a punk like me, but I’m happy anyway. I love you.
> 
> See you soon beautiful,  
>  James

 

 

The last letter James had ever written her, almost 72 years ago. Now Peggy was gone too. Sigrid arrived in London for her last appearance as Verity Sweet. Knowing Steve Rogers would be there, she’d worn a black scarf over her hair and large, very un-Sigrid – more Jackie O – pair of black plastic-framed sunglasses. Gloves, the works. Wore the dress she’d worn to Howard and Maria Stark’s funerals. Knee-length black crepe, sleeveless with gold studs around the collar.

Arriving early, hoping to avoid the crowd of dignitaries, politicians, and law enforcement officers, Sigrid made her way to the front of the room. Not seeing anyone else in the room, she leaned forward to kiss Peggy on the forehead and stroke her cheek.

Swallowing the sobs that wanted very much to consume her, she held Peggy’s cold hand and said, “Peggy, I can’t forgive you for leaving me alone with Rogers.” Her chest shook, and she struggled to keep her voice steady even as the tears started rolling down her cheeks. “You know he never liked me.”

Looking at Peggy’s serene face, the lines of confusion smoothed, worry and the strain of responsibility gone. “I’m still glad you got to see him again, Peg. I’ll try to behave, I promise.”

She twined a charm with three interlocking triangles into the small bouquet in Peggy’s hands and kissed her cheek, and whispered, “Until we meet in Valhalla, my friend.”

As she moved away from the casket, a man handed her a handkerchief, “You’re a little young to be crying like that over Aunt Peggy.”

For a moment, she thought she was losing her mind or seeing a ghost, “Howie?”

And stumbled back into one of the church pews, sitting down hard. Of course, now she could see it wasn’t Howard Stark in front of her. He’d had a son. A son who looked like he was trying to decide whether or not she was a psycho and whether or not he should be offended for being mistaken for his father.

Sigrid covered her mouth with her hand, “I’m sorry, of course you’re not _that_ Stark. I… I…” She wanted to say she’d had a long flight (true) and hadn’t gotten much sleep since hearing of Peggy’s death (also true), but nothing else wanted to come out except the wracking sobs she was trying desperately to keep to herself, so she bit the inside of her cheek and kept quiet.

Howard’s son – _what was his name?_ – leaned over and kissed Peggy on the cheek. “G’night Aunt Peggy. For better or worse, the guys and I got things from here on out. So, you know – what could go wrong?” He smoothed Peggy’s hair and looked at her sadly.

Looking at Sigrid (aka Verity Sweet), he said, “Can’t stay – I’ve got some paperwork to go through in Austria.” He studied her through tinted glasses, then offered her a hand up. “Two and a half hours before the funeral says to me you’re trying to beat the crowds.”

She finally caught her breath and wiped her eyes and nose. Sigrid sniffled and nodded, and unable to come up with anything witty to say. Utterly emotionally exhausted.

“I’ll walk you out.” He kept an eye on her as they left the church. As they walked out, her work phone rang.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

She walked to a spot nearby, but slightly less obvious than the front steps of the church. “Hello?”

The voice-masked, male contact who communicated new HYDRA targets to her spoke, “You’re in London?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I need you in Siberia. We’ve got dark web chatter about one of Leviathan’s old facilities.”

“I see.”

“I’ve got you on camera now. You’re with Tony Stark?” The voice sounded surprised, possibly annoyed.

 _Tony!_ That’s right. _That’s_ the kid’s name. _Kid…_ He had to be in his 40s now. “Yes.”

“Listen, he might try to talk you into going somewhere with him now. I need you dark for this mission. Talk your way out of it. The Winter Soldier’s on our radar again. You should have the brief in your inbox now.”

“Understood.”

“Good luck Three. Odin out.”

She hung up and looked at Stark, who was eyeing her with combined interest and suspicion, tapping his StarkPad and chatting with it in low tones. Opening her handbag, she searched for a calling card. Business cards – that’s what they called them now. Ah- _HA!_

She walked over, “I’m so sorry. Have to dash – brunch date with my cousin and I’m late.”

Tony Stark, not an idiot, clearly did not believe this for an instant. “I think it might be a good idea if you came with me.”

“I’d love to, but I just can’t today. Here’s my card. They always know how to contact me there.” She kept up what she thought of as her ‘British comedy prattle,’ clipped and speedy, “So nice to run into you. Simply must catch up soon. Maria would be so proud of you.” Air kisses while he was still stunned and away hailing a cab that her handler, codename Odin, had probably sent for her.

In curly script, the card said,  
V  
La Closerie des Lilas  
Montparnasse.

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Sigrid changed her clothes in a Tube Station loo. Disgusting, but an effective way to get lost in the crowd. Her fashionably large handbag was big enough in fact to contain a full outfit of her regular clothes and a backpack – all tightly rolled. She had a beat-up pair of Converse shoes in there too – her usual boots being too heavy. 

Her battered denim/Kevlar motorcycle pants and t-shirt worked well to disguise her. Without the scarf and sunglasses, it wasn’t too hard to get lost in the crowd. Of course, someone with an AI to assist them would be able to find her fairly quickly, so she kept moving. Breaking up the burner phone into multiple pieces and disposing of them in separate locations as she moved through the city.

The bus trip from London to Paris took about eight hours, but from there, she was able to take the train to Brussels, Belgium. From Brussels, fly to Moscow and on to Yakutsk in Siberia. After a delightful weather delay in Yakutsk on to her final destination, Tiksi, one of the northernmost communities in Russia. A cheerless shell of a Soviet military community, the facility was supposed to be in a bunker under the cemetery, known locally as Tiksi II. The whole trip took about three days including the weather delay, flight times, and covering her tracks.

In Paris, Sigrid picked up an envelope at Harry’s New York Bar that contained ID papers, tickets, and cash (no new bills or coins – _thank you Odin_ ). She left her American handbag and funeral clothes and passport declaring her ‘Sigrid Vinter’ in a bus locker in Brussels. 

In Moscow, Sig traded her backpack and American-made clothes, in exchange for a rucksack and some lower-end clothes: knock-off Levi’s, a pair of used combat boots (as well as a generous supply of foot powder to dose them before wearing them), and a smattering of sweaters and undershirts. Even replacing her socks and undergarments. By trading her American clothes, she was even able to make a profit and have some rubles in her pocket without having to pull additional cash.

Tiksi. _Ah…._ Five thousand people cut off from the rest of the world by the weather for months of the year. No wonder they stocked so much vodka and beer. The cold didn’t bother her, but it made sense to find a cheap boardinghouse. Of course, what brought the soft-spoken ‘Svetlana Nikolayevna Volkov’ to the remote, crumbling military community was that her father had told her that her great-grandfather had worked at the air field in Tiksi and had died here. She wanted to see if it was true during her gap year. 

The woman at the boardinghouse even showed her around the cemetery for a few extra rubles. She’d seen where she needed to go during the tour and most of the locals were afraid of the vast cemetery and the spirits it harbored. A bit of patience and determination was all it took to enter the facility. Its door codes hadn’t been updated for years.

Kill the Winter Soldiers and leave no trace. Before entering, she took out the comm link, just in case anyone was listening or watching the base. From there it was easy. The place was abandoned. The Winter Soldiers lined up in tanks, five total, like Frankenstein’s laboratory. Generators humming steadily in the background keeping their body temperatures stable, measuring their vital signs. The equipment HYDRA used to ‘encourage’ compliance in front of them. 

She thought about different ways to kill them without waking them and decided to try just turning off their tanks. Just one at first. Then she waited. Drank and played solitaire until the first woke in the tank, looking at her and beating his fist against the reinforced glass. It was as she’d hoped – their cryo chambers were strong enough to keep them inside in case of accidental waking. She flipped the switches on the other four tanks. More waiting. She didn’t dare leave in case she was wrong. They had to be stopped permanently. And watched them drown one by one. Murdering still worse murderers – a fact that didn’t really make her feel better.

No sign of the _Soldat_ , though – the one who’d attacked Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanov. Killed Howard and Maria Stark, among many, many others.

Finally back in Tiksi, the woman she’d been staying with hugged her, thinking she’d been lost in the freak blizzard they’d had during the past week. Sigrid didn’t have trouble looking haunted when she explained how she’d found shelter and been able to wait out the storm. No acting required. Trying to forget, she went to the bar (locals only) and won a little money out-drinking the almost bottomless drunks. They didn’t beat her up because she spent the money buying another round.

A few days later, still waiting for the weather to warm enough for planes to fly, just after lunch, she heard the unmistakable whine of a Quinjet. Her first thought was that they’d found her, but when she went out to investigate, in the distance, she could see what looked like a tiny plane. No, too small… Not seeing a bunch of SHIELD goons stomping around, Sig decided to venture out for more vodka and snacks before hiking over to investigate more closely.

From a closer vantage point behind a large rock, Sigrid watched three men: Steve Rogers in his Captain America outfit (he disliked it when she called it an ‘outfit’), a man in black head to toe, and another man cradling the ruins of his metal arm and long brown hair with his back to her. From her vantage point, she could see the red star. What the hell was Rogers doing with _Vinteren Soldat_? With them was another man, looking blankly ahead of him as the three led him onto the QuinJet. The man all in black climbed into another plane that made the Quinjet look like an antique. And they were gone.

Why had they been here? The _Soldat_ only worked with his HYDRA handlers and those they sent with him. _What the fuck was he doing with Steve Rogers?_ She could feel a headache blooming behind her eyes. Time to see what they’d been doing.

Secrecy certainly hadn’t been important. Chipped concrete here and there littered the floor. Working her way through the facility methodically. Quietly. The dust in the file room hadn’t been disturbed. Not intelligence gathering. She walked into the cryo room and surveyed the chaos. Tables had been moved, blown into splinters. Divots in the concrete where bullets, armor, and … noticing a red metal foot, probably repulsor beams had hit it.

Cautiously, she walked toward Iron Man. Jesus, she did not want to find Howard Stark’s boy dead. From across the room she said, “Privet?” _Hello?_

No response. She got closer. He was pale, but alive. Sigrid started trying to open the armor and Stark’s eyes flew open in terror and he tried to move, but without power, the suit didn’t do much.

Sigrid put her hands up, “Ja ne sobirajus' prichinit' tebe bol'.” _I’m not going to hurt you._

“Stay away from me.” Stark’s thoughts flying so fast she could almost see them. “Wait, no. Maybe you can help me.”

He clearly didn’t recognize her, which was good, but also somewhat disappointing. Sigrid didn’t try to hide her accent, “I can try.”

“You speak English?! Thank god!” Then doubt and suspicion clouded his features. “What are you doing here? Who are you?” And the unasked question, from the way he eyed the doorway behind her, ‘are they still here?’

Sigrid sighed, “They’re gone. Left in their planes. Can you open the suit?”

Stark shook his head. “Not without power.”

“Is it safe to move you?”

He protested, “The suit weighs…”

Ignoring his protests, Sigrid asked, “Are you broken inside there?”

“Well, yeah, but I think I’ll live. Probably.”

She gently picked up the armor with Tony inside. “How much power do you need to get out? This equipment’s live. If you walk me through, I think I can get you out.”

More than one electrical shock later (better her than him), she flipped the switch on what had been HYDRA’s brain eraser and the armor opened. Tony stepped out, flinching at the cold and in pain.

"Does it fold up?”

“What?” Tony’s teeth chattered. Sig hoped he wasn’t going into shock.

“You’re Iron Man. Everybody knows one of your armors folds up.” She paused, “That race in Monaco?”

Stark shook his head and she cut the power. She stood up a chair and moved it so he could sit. Sig sat on the table. “You have people coming for you?”

He sighed and looked older than his years, “No, I didn’t tell anybody I was coming.”

She offered him her bottle of vodka and some potato chips. Then she made up her mind. “Maybe I can help.” She found a wheeled gurney and helped Stark lay down on it. Sigrid picked up the empty Iron Man armor and tied loops around it with some cabling and hung it across her shoulders like a messenger bag as she pushed the gurney. Stark held onto the bag of snacks and booze.

“Why are we doing this?” he asked.

“Signal’s better outside.”

“Your phone gets a signal out here?”

“Yup.”

When they got outside, she dialed. And waited.

Finally… “Three? You ok?” A fair question since she’d never called for extraction before.

“Yeah. Have a civilian with me who can’t evac himself and needs medical attention.”

The growl of protest and reiteration of the terms of their agreement died when she followed up.

“Sir, it’s Tony Stark.”

“Motherfucker.” The digital voice sighed in frustration. “You get rid of those goldfish?”

“Dead in the water.” Stark looked up, alarmed. She covered the phone, “Not you Stark. You’re alive – obvs,” and rolled her eyes.

Still unhappy, the voice she knew as Odin grumbled, “All right. Be ready at the airport in six hours.”

“Yes sir…”

Annoyed, he asked, “Something else? Maybe you want fries with that?”

“Captain Rogers was here with the Winter Soldier. The original.”

“Not surprised. I’ll debrief you on that later. Odin out.”

Sigrid looked at Stark who was back to eyeing her suspiciously again. “Chto?” She shook her head – _wrong language_. “What?”

“You’re the girl from Aunt Peggy’s funeral.”

He did recognize her. Sort of. After another second cryptic phone call. She nodded.

“Recognized your phone.”

Sig mumbled, _“Figures.”_

Stark went on, “Those are top of the line. Almost better than the new Stark Phones.”

“And?”

“And so who are you? Who’re you talking to? Why are you here?”

“Question one: Gave you my card. That’s more than most get. Two: The guy who pays me to come to places like this. Three: Make sure the fish had an unfortunate accident.” Sig gestured over her shoulder with her thumb toward the base. “Old failing tech. Sucks to be them.”

“Sucks to be – Wait. You did that?! Not Zemo?”

“Never heard of Zemo. Which one was he?”

“Short brown hair. Greyish military coat?”

“Oh… The sad one getting pushed around.” She loaded Stark’s armor into the large red and white vehicle parked at the entrance to the bunker. “I’m still listening!”

Battered and looking distinctly worse for wear, Stark stood up, “Listen, I’m not going anywhere with you. Whoever you are. I’m not riding along for some kind of kidnapping or whatever.” He folded his arms in front of him.

“Suit yourself. I’m driving back into town and leaving in a few hours. You want a dinner and a quick ride out of Tiksi? Cool. You want to stay here in the military cemetery the whole town thinks is haunted with night coming on? Fine by me. Where do you want your outfit?” Probably nettled him as much as Rogers.

Annoyed, he said, “It’s not an outfit.” He sighed, “Listen, just tell me how you know Aunt Peggy.”

Inspiration. “I’ll tell you about it in the…” Sigrid glanced doubtfully at the vehicle borrowed by Zemo, “Zamboni-looking truck… if you tell me why Steve Rogers was here with the Winter Soldier.”

“The Popsicle Wonder Twins?” Stark’s tone of voice had a note of ‘totally old news – you are sooo out of the loop.’ “Capsicle would probably surgically attach him if the Manchurian Candidate let him.”

Suddenly she felt a little woozy. “Again, please? English?”

“They’re best friends _apparently_ ,” the bitter note in Stark’s voice audible.

Her mouth felt dry all of a sudden, but she managed to parrot back, “Best friends?” Surely Steve would have told her. She was almost entirely positive by the way he scowled at her that he knew who she was, that he remembered her. “Not working together?”

“Like HYDRA buddies? No way. As much as I am really angry – angry doesn’t cover it by the way – about all this,” Stark gestured to the bunker and the Zamboni-esque truck with his suit sitting shotgun, “he wouldn’t do that. No, they grew up together. Guy’s name was Barnes.”

Not dead – alive. _Not dead._ And he was the Winter Soldier. _Vinteren Soldat._ And Steve Rogers. He’d _known_. He’d known Barnes was alive and hadn’t told her. Even if he didn’t remember her – he was every bit as nosy as Natasha. Had access to Tony Stark’s computers and therefore the ability to dig around in what SHIELD had pieced together about her. He’d known who she was – and known Bucky was alive. They’d gone on missions together – Denmark in April ’44 and recently with Clint and Natasha. _No excuse._ No excuse for not telling her. _None._

Her stomach turned, and she dashed behind the truck and threw up. Until her stomach was empty and then dry heaved until the tears came. All the things she knew about the Winter Soldier – his missions, his HYDRA connections, how HYDRA tortured the Soldat and ‘encouraged’ compliance – started to cross reference themselves in her mind with the things she knew about her James.

From somewhere she heard a keening wail. The tears she’d held back at Peggy’s funeral, the guilt and weariness she felt from killing the endless stream of HYDRA monstrosities Odin sent her to confront, combined with her old grief for James B. Barnes. For someone so attuned to the cold, her tears were still hot. Cooling as they rolled down her cheeks.

Sigrid clutched the ring she wore on a chain around her neck. The simple, art deco band in white gold with three diamonds as large as a soldier’s salary allowed for in 1944. The pain of the metal pressing into her hand helped ground her, but provided no comfort.

Stark’s voice cut through her circular thought patterns that amplified her shock and grief. Cut through the what-ifs that threatened to break her down completely. “Hey, uh…” he sounded hesitant, then like he’d made up his mind to be an entitled asshole, “I was promised dinner and all I’ve got is a broken suit and _La Llorona_.”

She walked back around the truck, wiping her face with a handkerchief. “Sorry.” Sorrow pinched her features, “How… how long has Steve known that J- James is alive?”

“Year or so, I think. Don’t know exactly.” Stark’s expression softened. “Whatcha got there?” He tapped her hand and she looked down to see blood drip into the snow from between her fingers.

She opened her hand and saw that she’d broken the chain too.

“May I?” Sigrid nodded and Stark picked up the ring and wiped it off on his shirt, then examined it more carefully. “Very nice. Classic design. Good taste.” He plucked her handkerchief out of her other hand and wrapped her cut palm with it. Carefully handed her back the ring. “He give it to you?”

“We were going to get married after the war,” she said quietly.

“Wait – were you cryogenically frozen too?”

Sig shook her head, “No. Just the way I am. Like Thor I guess.”

“Asgardian?” Tony looked like he was calculating the odds of being rescued by an Asgardian merc who killed HYDRA agents for SHIELD and an unknown handler and also knew Captain America and the Winter Soldier _and_ Peggy Carter (and his father).

“Kind of. _Bolee ili menee_ … um.. More or less. Never been there. Earth – born and raised.” She sighed. “And now you know more about my past than almost anyone else in the last hundred years.” Tiredly she added, “We can talk in the truck, pravil'no?” _Right?_

Stark nodded. Getting in the truck he said “Speaking of Rogers keeping secrets… turns out that the Winter Soldier killed…. Sorry. Anyway. He knew and didn’t tell me.”

“About Maria and…?” Her voice trailed off, not knowing the particulars, but able to tell that H. Stark was something of a sore point with his son.

“You knew too?! Am I the only one who didn’t know?”

“That’s when I started looking for the _Soldat_ in earnest.” She sighed, then laughed without mirth. “I knew so much about him – except who he was. Had been.”

Silence reigned in the cab of the truck as they rode back into Tiksi proper. Stark looked out the window. “Did you know my mother?”

“Not very well. Howard –”

Stark tsk-ed, challenging, “Not _Howie_?”

“I wasn’t one of those girls. I called him that to make fun of him and he knew it. Bothered him, so I kept doing it.”

Stark studied her a moment, looking at her carefully, then nodded in understanding.

“Anyway, Howard didn’t want all the riff raff he knew from his war days close to his family.”

“And you’re riff raff?”

She smiled a little, “Verity Sweet, riff raff extraordinaire – at your service.”

“That’s not really your name, is it?”

“Heard you were a smart kid. That’s how Peggy knew me anyway. Knew it wasn’t really my name, but I think she thought it was funny. Especially after Ian’s book came out.”

“Ian?”

“Fleming? Wrote a bunch of spy books?”

Tony stared at her, not sure if he should believe her or not. “You were a Bond girl?”

Sigrid rolled her eyes. “Noooo. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Ian and I like the books, but Bond is kind of a creeper. No, no – Truly Scrumptious.”

“Huh?”

“ _Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang_?”

She could almost see the gears turning in Starks mind, casting back for it. She started to sing the song from the movie,

 

“Sugar plum, cinnamon and lemon tart  
Tell you what they are right from the start  
And your name does the same for you –  
By coincidence, Truly Scrumptious  
You’re truly, truly scrumptious…”

 

Stark chuckled, “That’s right… Heiress to a candy fortune…”

Sigrid grinned, “Swept off her feet by Dick Van Dyke.”

“Maybe if you’d been a little more Mary Poppins you’d have been able to stick around.”

Sigrid laughed aloud, “If I’d been more Mary Poppins I’d have been cut from the Christmas card list too.”

He sat back and took another nip from the bottle. “So, what do you call yourself now?”

“Sigrid Vinter.”

He considered, “Not a bad alias – it’s a real person name anyway.” Thinking for another moment, Stark added, “You’re the kid who’s been working with Clint and N-Ro.”

She nodded and sighed, “Sometimes. It’s all kinda goin’ to hell lately though.”

Stark rubbed his hand over his face, not believing how his day had turned out, what was happening – had happened – to the team. “Yeah, tell me about it.”


	6. June 2016 and August 2017 - Divine Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She ran her hand over leather hatbox that contained all she had left of Sergeant James B. Barnes. She’d counted how many days they’d been able to spend together. Less than seventeen total. One in Portograuro, nine in London, four in Paris just after Liberation, and almost three in Bruges that December of 1944. She’d written every day, no matter how busy she’d been – 370 of them before Jim Morita had written to tell her Bucky’d been killed on a mission.

Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky  
Stormy weather  
Since my man and I ain't together  
Keeps rainin' all the time  
\--Harold Arlen, Ted Koehler

 

Hanging out in the Tiksi airport with Tony Stark was much more subdued than either of them expected. Sigrid paid her landlady, grabbed her bag, and picked up a bunch of first aid supplies, a dozen piroshky, pickled mushrooms, pickled beets, and a six-pack of beer on their way to the airport. They sat in the terminal, eating in emotionally exhausted silence almost entirely alone – Tiksi not being a particular hotspot for jetsetters or Western business travelers.

She’d patched Stark up as best she could with the supplies available from the market. He’d even sat still, not even bothering to ask if she knew what she was doing.

They’d taken off in the Cessna CJ4 sent by her handler before he spoke again. “Good piroshky.”

She nodded. “Comfort food’s the best part of Tiksi.”

“You okay?”

“Are you?”

Stark sighed, “Touche.” He looked out the window for a moment, then back to her, “So where’s your Russian BFF taking us?”

“Nome – it’s closer than Japan or Korea. About three-ish hours.”

“Open bar?”

“No idea – I usually fly coach.”

Stark wrinkled his nose in disgust and disbelief, “Seriously?”

She thumbed toward herself, “Merc on a budget. I’ll take a look, though.” In one of the compartments in the rear of the aircraft she found some pretzels and a stash of Russian vodka. “Just pretzels and vodka.”

“Good enough.”

An hour and a half later, she’d managed to drink enough that she wasn’t embarrassed at singing along with the music on her phone anymore. Stark joined in somewhere around ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’ and was definitely onboard for ‘The Pina Colada Song.’ Sigrid was pretty sure they high-fived at some point in time.

After reaching Nome, Sigrid and Stark deplaned and she sat next to the broken Iron Man armor while Stark called his people. The alcohol, the emotional upheaval, and long week combined, and Sig drifted off to sleep.

 

>>>>>>>>>

 

Tony _finally_ hung up the phone after assuring everyone who needed assuring that he was fine. He wasn’t. In the words of Marcellus Wallace, he was ‘pretty fucking far from ok.’ He looked over to see Sigrid asleep, having curled up on the uncomfortable airport seating, using the suit’s leg as a pillow.

The airport – really just a few hangars and a waiting area – was nigh desolate. A bored teenager sat at a newsstand. Tony walked over to see if they had anything more nutritious than the chips, snack crackers, and candy bars he could see from here. Probably not. There was literally no one else visible in the terminal, so he felt fairly safe in leaving Sigrid and the armor unattended.

Returning, he saw a man sitting across from Sigrid, legs crossed in front of him, arm over the back of the bench seating. The man wore a hat, sunglasses, and long black coat. “Mr. Stark! What a surprise.”

“Fury? Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” Tony looked for a place to sit and glanced at Sigrid, her mouth puckered in a sleeping pout.

“Don’t advise waking her up Stark. She’s lived her whole life undercover. Doesn’t take being startled lightly.”

Tony nodded, “Been sitting a while anyway. You’re the one she’s been talking to on the phone?”

Fury inclined his head, “I am.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking up at Stark. “You going to make her sign the Accords?”

Tony considered and looked at her again. “I’m not trying to make _anyone_ sign the Accords.” Sighing, “I just think oversight isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Gives us legal protection too – so people like Wanda would be protected if something goes wrong on a mission.” His knee started to ache and was threatening to go out. Leaning toward Sigrid, in a low voice, he said, “Hey Asgard’s Got Talent, move over. Brought you a snack.”

Sigrid cracked an eye open, smiled sleepily, and took the snacks and sat up. She mumbled, “Thanks Tony.” He sat, and she rested her head on his shoulder, tucked her feet to the side, and went back to sleep.

Fury’s eyebrows rose a fraction, but otherwise his expression didn’t change. “Must like you. Go figure.” He stood up and paced slowly, thinking. Then Fury spoke slowly, “These last few days, Vinter’s lost almost everyone she knows to these damn Accords. Doesn’t know about Barton and Romanov yet. If she signs, she can keep working in the same capacity for SHIELD as she did before. I’ve got some contingency plans in place if she doesn’t want to sign, though.”

“ _Contingency plans_?” Stark said doubtfully.

“Will you shut up Stark?” Fury stood in front of Tony, looking down at him, then glanced at Sigrid, “Stark, she’s got no one without Natasha and Barton. I need to know – you gonna step up?”

“It’s not my fault –”

In a tensely patient tone, Fury continued, “I’m not _blaming_ you for anything Stark. Just don’t want her to drop off the grid again.” He paused, “Or go back to Hellhouse.”

“Wasn’t that a Vincent Price flick?”

“Stark, you’re trying my patience. It’s a mercenary bar in New York in the basement of the old St. Margaret’s reformatory.”

“That makes more sense.”

Sigrid sat up and rubbed her eyes, looking vaguely annoyed. “God, you two are loud.” Seeing Fury, she smiled, “Hey, long time no see.” She unfolded herself and stood, fishing a key with a plastic end out of her pocket. Handing it to Fury, she said, “My stuff’s in there. If it found its way back to me, I’d appreciate it.”

Fury nodded once. Then he looked at her, “The Winter Soldier?”

She folded her arms over her chest, “So he’s Bucky Barnes?” Tony noticed that other than the slightly defensive posture, she didn’t give anything away.

“Cap’s spent the last couple years looking for him. We kept Rogers from finding him too soon. Bought him some time to… process what happened to him without anyone else – no matter how well-meaning – butting in.”

Her jaw set, “So why have me hunting him down?”

“Wanted to be sure we had eyes on the situation if he… reoffended.”

“And if I couldn’t find him, Rogers couldn’t either. Compartmentalization.”

Fury nodded again. “Something like that, yeah.”

“It’s seriously annoying when you do that,” Sigrid rubbed her forehead. Looking at Fury, her eyes silver – like mirrors, she said, “Barnes is off-limits.”

Scowling, Fury started to argue.

She said, “It’s not a negotiation. If someone needs to take action, it’ll be me.”

Tony noticed the temperature drop and saw something in her hair – feathers? No… too pointy. More like frost? _Ice crystals. Holy shit._

Sigrid let a breath out and ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m gonna get a strawberry Crush and some vodka. Want anything?” She looked between Stark and Fury, who both shook their heads.

Tony watched as she walked away. “You just let her boss you around?”

In a very human moment, Fury said, “Man, you don’t want to be on her bad side.” Recovering somewhat, he went on, “And the Barnes thing is small in the scope of what I’ve got going on right now. She can handle it how she wants.”

 

>>>>>>>>>>

 

Sigrid did _not_ sign the Accords – submit a DNA sample for the privilege of being _allowed_ to have a bunch of idiots push you around? Risk being locked up after a ‘full demonstration of innate abilities’? _Yeah, big no on that._

Instead, she worked within the contingency plan Fury and Coulson had set up. She worked as a mechanic for SHIELD, making repairs and modifications. Sig liked to think of herself as the Abby Sciuto of SHIELD’s garage, but Tony called her ‘The Cook,’ like Steven Seagal’s character from _Under Seige_.

Occasionally, she had lunch with Phil Coulson, who had put together the missions she’d gone on with Natasha and Clint… and Rogers. Clint was under house arrest, so she went up to the farm sometimes just for the semblance of normalcy. The strain on him, his family, and his marriage was obvious. Sig thought – _hoped_ – that having a ‘work friend’ come over to work on the truck once in awhile or to go to school plays and Little League games helped them all.

Stark made an effort to be friendly (sometimes _very_ friendly), she thought largely to keep his own head above water, but it was nice to have someone to hang out with. He also sometimes invited her over to show her something he’d dug up about her fugitive friends. His friends too, as complicated as those feelings were. She knew Tony sometimes buried intel about them, just feeding the international security council and Secretary Ross enough so they believed he was working with them. _Idiots._

But no word from Nat or Steve. Or Bucky. Not that she’d expected any. Nat was too smart – too careful. Steve didn’t like her. And Bucky – James – probably had no memory of her.

Sigrid sat cross-legged on the bed of her South Bronx studio apartment, shuffling through her box of memories. So many things from so long ago. The small tattered leather cat doll made for her by Dedushka, _Grandpa_ , in Russia nearly five hundred years ago, its paint nearly worn away. A couple of finger-sized carved dolls made by her mother even longer ago.

She ran her hand over leather hatbox that contained all she had left of Sergeant James B. Barnes. She’d counted how many days they’d been able to spend together. Less than seventeen total. One in Portograuro, nine in London, four in Paris just after Liberation, and almost three in Bruges that December of 1944. She’d written every day, no matter how busy she’d been – 370 of them before Jim Morita had written to tell her Bucky’d been killed on a mission.

Morita had returned her letters to James, the photos she’d sent, and a few other personal items he didn’t think Captain Rogers would miss and thought she’d like to have. The paper of the envelopes slightly soft from being opened again and again, and carried in Barnes’ pockets, but she hadn’t read her own words to James again. Kept the letters in their bundles he’d tied neatly with string. Kept all of it because she was a sentimental fool.

Sigrid touched the ring on the chain around her neck, looking in the small box with the diamond/spade playing card cufflinks she’d bought for James as a wedding present. _What had she been thinking?_ Letting him propose to a monster. Since that night in Bruges, she’d only aged about a year and half. How long would they have been together before he realized she wasn’t human? _When had she started crying again?_

This time she should really keep the ring in the box where it belonged. She’d gone to Switzerland as often as she could over the past seventy years to look for any sign of him. To bring what she could back to the New York he’d wanted to show her – and returned empty-handed each time. Well, at least now she knew why. There hadn’t been anything to find.

Her phone buzzed. “Yeah? Whaddya need Stark?” Sig wiped her eyes.

“Bad day Top Gear? You sound sniffly.” A pause long enough for her to almost respond followed by, “Those guys with the tactical gear didn’t make any more jokes about you making your living on your back, did they?”

Sigrid laughed, “The security force guys? No – no they didn’t. Once was enough to teach them that’s no way to talk to a woman.” Those guys had been spectacular jackasses – not just doing their best to try to create a hostile work environment, but then they’d crowded around and started shaking the car on its jack stands. So when she’d defended herself against them (they were lucky to keep most of their teeth), they hadn’t really had a leg to stand on with HR when they complained about her being a menace and unable to take a joke.

“Do they still call you Cook?”

“Yes, they do. I’m not sure, but I think they’re under the impression it’s my name.” She snickered to herself. It _was_ kind of fun to kick ass once in a while.

“I’m assuming you haven’t seen the news?” Stark asked coyly.

“Nope. Why?”

“Pack a bag. Remember when you were talking about divine intervention?”

“No – was I drunk?”

“About the Accords?”

“Oohhh… right. Yeah. I vaguely remember saying something like that….” They had only talked about the Accords while intoxicated. A feeling of excitement and dread mingled and formed a heavy knot in her stomach. “What happened?” At the same time, she started packing a bag.

“Literal divine intervention. I’m on my way to pick you up for a weekend up north if you’re game. Then you can watch the events unfold on the great big screen instead of that tiny computer monitor you have attached to your wall.”

“And have a front row seat to all the chaos?” Sigrid didn’t particularly mind Tony dissing her TV. It was miniscule, – all 19 inches of it – but it fit in her studio apartment and a larger TV wouldn’t.

“I take you to all the best shows, babe.”

“The last show you took me to was _Fate of the Furious_.” Not a dig – she liked the Furious movies, but totally a movie where you knew what you were signing up for when you went into the theater.

“With Vin Diesel, Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson, and Jason Statham. Not to mention Ludacris and Michele Rodriguez.”

“Yeah, yeah. Should I bring snacks?”

“Nah, I’m almost to your place now. We can stop for barbacoa burritos on the way.”

“Oooo… ok. Sold. As long as we can get some horchata too.”

“Done. Be there in 15.”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>

 

As it turned out, Thor and Loki had just arrived on Earth with what remained of the Asgardian people as well as an odd assortment of other aliens. By the time she and Tony got to the Avengers base in upstate New York, Rhodey and Vision had already been there for a while – as well as a few people she didn’t know.

Sigrid had met Rhodey before. Been interviewed/interrogated by him was closer to the truth. She didn’t really blame him – Tony Stark didn’t have a great track record as far as women went. She and Tony had a strictly friends with benefits arrangement since both of them were in ‘complicated’ romantic relationships and feeling kind of sad sack about it.

She’d never met Vision before, but it would have been hard not to recognize a magenta? purple? red? guy with a sparkling yellow jewel embedded in his forehead. Sig had also never met the two boys and the man who looked like a high school principal.

Tony turned to her as she started trying to blend in with the décor, “Hey Top Gear, you hand out the food. Vision, this is the one Rhodey’s been complaining about bending the rules.”

Sigrid handed Rhodey his carne asada burrito and a Corona, nodding with a little smile to Vision, “Hi.”

Tony was talking to the principal. “I suppose you’ve got a good reason for this Happy?” he said, pointing to the kids.

The freckled kid spoke up, “I’m really sorry Mr. Stark, but we were going to the library to study for our Spanish test that’s gonna be on Friday and Ned’s mom is out of town and so he’s like our responsibility and if I’m going on a Stark Industries intern thing then he needed to come with me ‘cause otherwise…”

Stark closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Looking very put-upon, Tony looked at Sigrid, “The suit is Happy Hogan, security – note the badge?”

Sigrid nodded, acknowledging the badge, “Was yours chicken or carnitas?”

Hogan cleared his throat, “Chicken.”

Tony turned to the two teenagers, “This is the kid. Kid’s friend.” He looked at the boys, “Don’t bother her. You can call her Cook.” Glancing at Sig, he added, “And you – no showing off.”

She waved awkwardly at the teenagers. “Two carnitas burritos?” And distributed those also. “Tapatio and salsa on the table over there.” Sigrid tried again to fade into the background and away from the people who belonged there – more or less.

This time she was thwarted by the freckled kid with the chirpy voice and excuses. “Hi, I’m Peter – this is my friend Ned.”

Peter took a breath and Ned went on instead, “Why did Mr. Stark call you Top Gear?”

She smiled, “I’m a mechanic.”

“Then why are we supposed to call you Cook?”

“It’s a movie reference, Steven Seagal 90’s thing.”

Peter looked up at her, chewing slowly, “ _Under Siege_?” Eyes wide.

Sig nodded. “Yeah, Tony thinks it’s funny.”

Tony pulled her away, “C’mon Death Proof. Show time.”

And she finally found a seat and could eat, watching the news footage of the transport ship, the Asgardians leaving the ship, and Thor addressing the king of Norway, where they’d landed. Then the footage cut to an update that Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross had suffered a fatal heart attack on the golf course when he’d heard about the arrival of the Asgardians.


	7. August-October 2017: Keep On Keepin' On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being fidgety did not put people at their ease, though. Very little made people _less_ at ease than fidgeting assassins. Thinking about where he fell on the scale of things people were scared of – somewhere around spiders maybe? – was where his head was when he realized he’d diverged from the group somewhere in SHIELD’s New York office, losing Steve and Sam somewhere in the all the identical-looking hallways and unmarked doors.

You understand they’ve got a plan for us  
I bet you didn’t know that I was dangerous  
It must be fate, I found a place for us  
I bet you didn’t know someone could love you this much  
\-- Daniel Michael Armbruster, Alan Wilkis; Big Data - “Dangerous”

 

Ultimately, over the course of a long weekend in August and the week that followed, the world changed. Again.

During the last year and a half, countries all over the world had discovered as more and more people signed the registry for enhanced individuals, that it wasn’t just the United States that had significant populations of mutants, geniuses, and Inhumans – that they could defend themselves if necessary from ‘rogue actors.’ Yes, many jokes were made at that reporter’s expense.

By September, the United Nations had updated the Sokovia Accords to outline oversight, rather than _control_ of enhanced individuals working in law enforcement, intelligence, and military capacities. Civilians would be held accountable under existing legal frameworks in their countries of origin. The growing list of names from all over the world also was getting too close to the Inquisition or Nazi genealogies for public opinion to continue supporting the Accords as they’d been written initially. _And nothing like a photo op with Thor to bring people to the negotiation table._

Without Secretary Ross pouring gasoline onto the dumpster fire that were the incidents in Lagos and Leipzig, pardons had been issued to all the fugitive Avengers. They were even going to bring Barnes back to the US. From listening to SHIELD gossip, the US wanted to bring him back stateside so they could give him his back pay, which would then be used to pay for property damage and injuries he caused in Leipzig.

_Divine intervention indeed._

Second week of October, 2017. Sigrid’s life hadn’t changed as much as she’d hoped. Pepper Potts wanted to try again with Tony, so between the utter international chaos caused by the arrival of the Asgardians and rekindling romance with his lady love, Sig hadn’t seen much of the billionaire genius lately.

Clint was back to just being ‘retired’ instead of arrested, but still stayed out of town. Natasha and Steve had come back to the States with Barnes and Sam Wilson, but she hadn’t seen any of them – except on TV. Rogers had made a public speech about his reasons for defying the Accords and the reasons he supported the new less invasive initiative.

Nat had been interviewed (again) by the Senate, but hadn’t called. They’d only just started hanging out socially before Peggy died and the Accords had gone into effect, so who knew if they were really friends or not…

Working on rewiring an ejection seat in a 2014 Chevy Tahoe, Sigrid realized that she was feeling lonely and sulky because she’d totally been dumped in favor of big business and global politics. _Bleh…_ She wasn’t important enough to have a seat at the table with the bigwigs. And she hadn’t wanted that.  Really. Didn’t change the way she _felt_ though.

And how was she supposed to see James B. Barnes again if he was under the supervision of one Captain Steve Rogers who (in addition to being very busy like everyone else in the enhanced individual world – aside from her, apparently) seemed determined to keep them away from each other?

Sighing to herself, Sigrid turned up the music in the garage and went back to work. _Same old, same old._ The new SUVs she was working on incorporated tech that negated heat signature detection. Nothing she created personally, but she was trying to see if existing vehicles could be retrofitted with similar systems without causing electrical problems. _Keep your head down, stay out of the way._

 

>>>>>>>>>>>

 

If Bucky Barnes had to sit through another meeting where people talked about him as though he wasn’t sitting there in the room with them, he was going to lose his cool and tell somebody off. Didn’t help having Steve’s friend Sam questioning whether it was really a good idea to bring the Winter Soldier back to the United States and seeing Steve’s worried expression speaking volumes for itself. _Thanks for the vote of confidence, pal._

Do this, don’t do that. They (whoever that was… probably everyone) will misinterpret everything you say. And whatever you do, stay away from the garage. One of their top HYDRA hunters works down there. Steve had struggled to find a good comparison and had left his description of her abilities as ‘being damn good with bladed weapons.’

Since Steve picked him up from Wakanda a couple weeks ago, there had been few quiet moments. So little of the peace he’d felt while working in Wakanda’s fields. Now, he had nothing to do other than feel the tension and fear of those around him. Combined with the boredom of almost total inactivity, they crawled under his skin, making him restless, fidgety.

Being fidgety did not put people at their ease, though. Very little made people _less_ at ease than fidgeting assassins. Thinking about where he fell on the scale of things people were scared of – somewhere around spiders maybe? – was where his head was when he realized he’d diverged from the group somewhere in SHIELD’s New York office, losing Steve and Sam somewhere in the all the identical-looking hallways and unmarked doors.

Now he could hear some bootfalls hurrying, others cautiously trying to stay quiet. _Shit._ And of course, they had headsets with someone monitoring the CCTV and telling them where he was. Barnes knew it was him they were pursuing (for daydreaming and getting lost!) because the footfalls were converging toward his position.

A stairwell with a green letter G above the door, going down looked as good as any other escape route. Through the door and over the railing, making his way down as quickly as possible. He opened the steel door at the bottom and found… the garage. Great. _G for garage, moron._

A tall blonde with a ponytail glanced up from her work and looked him up and down frankly. Heart in his throat, he looked around and then back over his shoulder. The woman stood up, wiped her hands on a red bandana from her pocket and opened up the back seat of the SUV she was working on.

“In here.”

Hearing the staccato of boots coming down the stairs behind him, Bucky did what anyone would do. He took the available hiding spot she suggested. A space under the rear bench seat large enough for a man his size – but only just.

She explained quickly, “Release button’s by your right hand if it’s too claustrophobic.” She looked over her shoulder, “I’ll let you know when they’re gone.” She closed the seat and it _was_ small. Very. His nose brushed the bottom of the seat. This was the only time since he’d left Wakanda that he was grateful not to have his prosthetic. He might not have fit with an extra shoulder and arm.

Bucky stilled his breath and listened. The small vents by the footwells let him hear some of what was going on – as well as provide ventilation. _Deep breaths Barnes._ In through the mouth, hold to the count of ten, out through the nose. Feeling his heart rate slow helped him feel a little more in control… from his hiding place inside the back seat of an SUV where he was hiding from his best friend and his SHIELD buddies. _Christ Barnes, you’re a piece of work._

The garage door banged open and he held his breath. He heard her say, “Hey guys.”

Half a dozen male voices squeaked, “Uh… ma’am. Cook. Sir.” 

More footsteps. Steve’s voice cut through the hestitancy of the other security force guys. “Where’s Bucky? What did you do to him?”

“Hi Rogers – long time no see.”

Steve’s voice was closer now, “I’m not gonna ask again – what did you do to Bucky?”

“I didn’t do anything. It’s been what? A couple of minutes since he opened the door? At _most?_ ” She went on in a more obviously patient voice, “Garage? Multiple exit points?” Barnes wondered if she mentioned this for his benefit or to distract Steve. Sighing, she said, “Anyway, it was my understanding that without the metal arm he’s considered a civilian and not somebody who needs to be pursued by anybody.” After a long pause, she asked, “Did you really think I’d hurt him Steve?” She sounded sad – disappointed.

He could hear Steve sigh and then he heard Steve’s voice – not Captain America’s tone of authority, “I…” Steve sighed again, “I’m sorry Sigrid. I just… It’s been really hard. And coming back? It’s kind of like coming out of the ice again.” _You can say that again, pal._

Footsteps and she said, “I know. It’s been hard for all of us.” What was going on? Did he hear a kiss? Bucky really wanted to see what was happening, but he didn’t want to give away his position yet either.

She - Sigrid the Mechanic – added, “What made you think I’m such a loose cannon all of a sudden?”

“Just overheard some people talking about how you took out a bunch of guys for no reason.”

“No reason.” She sounded pissed. “No reason?” Bucky could swear he heard the security force guys who’d come down with Steve shaking in their boots. “Which one of you would like to volunteer to tell Captain Rogers what happened?”

A meaningful pause, but no volunteers apparently. “Nolan – you tell Captain Rogers the events leading up to the incident.”

A male voice squeaked, “Me? Ma’am? Uh… Well… Sir… a bunch of us guys wanted to find out when our vehicle was going to be ready to take out again,” Nolan’s voice gaining confidence as he continued. “When we got down here, um….” His voice faltered again. “Ms. Vinter was working under another vehicle. We asked about ours and then Anderson made a joke… and she got mad.”

Sigrid’s voice, calm, but too serious, called out, “Anderson!”

Boots clicked together, “Yes ma’am!”

“Repeat your joke for Captain Rogers.”

Anderson (presumably) cleared his voice once and then again – clearly uncomfortable. “I said it must be easy for her to work here because all she had to do was get on her back.”

“What?!” Steve burst out. From his hiding place, Bucky shook his head with contempt. Beyond the fact that it was wrong to make those kind of comments to begin with - you don't fuck with the people in charge of your equipment. Ugh... so _basic._

“Wait, there’s more. Walker – haven’t heard from you yet. What happened next?”

“Uh… um… I’m gonna be sick.” Hurried footsteps and vomiting. _Gross._ At least he was scared. Good. He should be.

She called on a different guy, “Keagan?”

“Uh, well…” he coughed and went on, “We all laughed and then Ryan started crowding her and we sorta all joined in and started pushing the car. We didn’t know she was so tough!”

Steve’s tone of unmasked contempt, “And it would’ve been ok if she wasn’t?! What the hell?!” That was just about as close as Steve got to really swearing.

Sigrid said to Steve, “And then they complained to HR when I beat them up. No fatalities though!” She sounded proud of herself and Steve chuckled, and Bucky heard a clap like a high-five. _Man, how long had it been since he’d heard Steve laugh?_

With disbelief, Steve asked, “How are they still here?”

“Politics… Ryan is Thaddeus Ross’s nephew, so they got demoted and each got 9 months of community service – in hourly increments.”

Steve grunted, understanding, but not liking it. “Will you send Bucky up when he’s ready? We were gonna grab some lunch in the cafeteria.”

“Hot dog cart across the street is better, but yeah, I’ll send him up.”


	8. October 2017 - Sexy Dreams and a Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky understood that most people didn’t avoid embarrassing situations by using the gas on the dryer to make an improvised explosive device. With the serum, he’d probably survive if he stayed on the other side of the washing machine. Gas leak. A terrible accident. Bucky knew that the thought came from seventy-odd years of blowing shit up to create distractions and that it was his mind just making sure he had all the options on the table, but still. Normal people didn’t have figurative tables large enough for all the options he could think of for avoiding uncomfortable situations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay! I wanted to make a little progress with the following chapters so I know more or less how it's gonna end up. Up to 14 chapters so far, but it's not over yet! And to think, I figured it'd be maybe 2 or 3 tops. Instead? ALL the words! :D And I promise... there really will be cooking lessons. Honest.
> 
> First there's gonna be some angst, then we meet Loki & Thor in this time line. And then kittens (awwww!). But I super-duper promise there really will be cooking. Cross my heart. Love you all!

> Don't you, forget about me  
>  Don't, don't, don't, don't  
>  Don't you, forget about me  
>  As you walk on by  
>  Will you call my name?  
>  Or will you walk away?  
>  Will you walk on by?  
>  Come on, call my name  
>  Will you call my name?  
>  \--Keith Forsey, Steve W. Schiff, “Don’t You (Forget About Me)”  
> 

And she _had_ sent him back to Steve. Given him specific instructions for how to get to the cafeteria from the garage. Multiple options. Even drawn him a map on his good arm. Thinking about later, Bucky hoped that he hadn’t blushed. It’d been awhile since non-medical personnel had touched him – other than Steve clapping him on the back or something. He could still feel her fingers on his arm, see her eyes looking into his, making sure he understood her directions. Then she added herself to the contacts on his phone.

“If you get lost, call me.”

A couple nights later, the dreams started. He could never see the woman’s face in these dreams – like it was dark wherever they were, but so intense…. In the last one, he sat in a straight-backed wooden chair with the woman sitting in his lap. She tasted like lemons when he kissed her, and she’d moaned when he cupped her breasts. Then she’d used his shoulders for leverage and rode his cock like she like it was her only mission in life.

And he’d needed to wash his sheets. _Again._ For the third time in a week. What was he? Fourteen?

After (another) cold shower, he slipped on fresh black lounge pants and headed to the washing machine again, trying to look stoic. He sat on the floor, back to the washer, arm draped over his knees. Wish fulfillment was what his therapist had said when he’d mentioned it at their last session. A positive sign of healing and a sign that he was probably ready to start forging new relationships. Branch out a little from the familiar faces.

And soooo what? Read a bunch of self-help books? Dating app? Each option as he thought of it sounded worse and worse. Kaplan, his therapist had said, ‘Talk to your friends about it.’ _No way._ They gave him a hard enough time as it was, well Natalya did anyway. Steve sort of floated between ‘everything’s _fine_ ’ and ‘nothing will ever be okay again.’ Sam Wilson, sort of a frenemy, would probably look at him askance and say something like, ‘Who’d want your sorry ass Barnes?’

Maybe he should call that girl. If he did hear her kiss Steve, it didn’t seem like anything too serious. The guy spent way too much time with his work team for a guy with a girlfriend. And Steve seemed to have his eye on a different blonde – Sharon Carter. Carter seemed all right, but too much like Steve – serious, straight shooter. Thinking about Sigrid the Mechanic’s cheerful, “No fatalities!” made him smile in spite of his awkward situation.

But it’d been a week since she’d given him her phone number. And she’d probably just meant for him to call that day if he got lost in the hall. Again. Bucky ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. Getting lost in the hall? Seriously? _Idiot._ She was just trying to be nice, that’s all.

His circular thought pattern was disrupted by a knock on the laundry room door. “Planning to come out of there anytime soon?” Natalya. He could hear the amusement in her voice. God, _she knew._

“No.”

“Steve told me because he was worried you might be developing some sort of OCD thing. A hitherto untapped neat freak thing.”

“Shut up Natalya.” He understood that most people didn’t avoid embarrassing situations by using the gas on the dryer to make an improvised explosive device. With the serum, he’d probably survive if he stayed on the other side of the washing machine. Gas leak. A terrible accident. Bucky knew that the thought came from seventy-odd years of blowing shit up to create distractions and that it was his mind just making sure he had all the options on the table, but still. Normal people didn’t have figurative tables large enough for all the options he could think of for avoiding uncomfortable situations.

“C’mon Barnes… I’ll stop.” About as close as Natalya got to an apology. He moved his feet away from the door so she could open it.

“Fine.”

Natasha came in and sat on the counter narrow counter for folding clothes. “Well?”

Bucky looked up at her through the hair that’d fallen in his face. “If you laugh, I’ll find a way to kill you.”

She moved to sit next to him on his right and took his hand between hers. “I thought it was funny that Steve hadn’t figured it out. I’m not here to laugh at you, Yasha.”

He looked at her. It was strange to see her here – an adult. He remembered training the Red Room girls – probably because he’d been out of cryo for longer periods of time then. Remembered her wide eyes alert and trying so hard to earn approval he hadn’t been able to give. How he’d made her fight the other girls because that’s how it was there. Taught her how to wield knives and improve her accuracy with guns. Use her body as a weapon. She’d had the drive – the fire. He’d just given her some of the tools she’d needed to survive the Red Room, that was all. Bucky sighed.

“You were always my favorite student, myshka.” _Little mouse._

Natasha looked startled, wary. “You never called me that.”

“No. But it’s how I thought of you. Every time they brought me back, I was proud to see you there.” _Still alive_ is what he meant, but Natalya understood.

“This isn’t about…”

His eyes flicked over to her again and shook his head vigorously, “Oh! _No._ **No**. Just that I remember a lot of things that I don’t talk about with Steve.”

Natasha nodded and relaxed again, a small smile curving her lips, she imitated a male voice, “Snova! Snova!” _Again! Again!_ “I shot a cigarette out of your mouth.”

He grinned and nodded. “You did. I remember that. Knew you could pull it off,” ruffling her hair. Bucky’s eyes looked far away, “But there’s a lot of gaps. Lotta stuff that I can almost grasp, but…” he shook his head. “Then it’s gone again.”

“You think these… dreams are memories?”

“I dunno. Therapist says they’re a wish fulfillment thing, but there’s details that make them seem so real, pravil'no?” _Right?_

“What kind of details?”

“Like in one of my dreams she and I were in a janitor’s closet…”

Natasha raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah, _anyway,_ so in the closet, practically eye-level – Jeyes Fluid Cleaning Solution and a can of Cook’s Dance Floor wax. Why would those be there if it wasn’t something that happened?”

“Anything else?”

He closed his eyes, “Last night, she tasted like lemons when I kissed her. We’d been drinking limoncino.”

“Limoncello?”

“No, that’s what they call it in the South.” He stared at the light reflected on the door knob, mind working through the details, trying to figure out if he was remembering, or just adding half-remembered things to an elaborate fantasy.

Natasha peered at him, “Yasha?”

Bucky blinked and looked back at her, “I’ll be ok Myshka.” He couldn’t read the expression on her face, just saw her perceptive blue eyes analyzing his features for tells. “Knock it off. I’m not gonna fling myself off a tall building or something.” Under his breath, Bucky muttered, “My luck, probably lose my other fuckin’ arm.”

She gave him one of her sphinx smiles and stood up. “I’ll hold you to that.” Natasha’s eyebrow raised, “And good luck with the laundry.”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

On her lunch break, Sigrid set down her cup noodle and answered her phone, “Tony?”

“Do you know it’s been five weeks, three days, and seven hours since I saw you last?”

She was glad to hear from him. She’d been feeling particularly lonely after seeing James. Looking him in the eye and him not having a clue who she was. Not even a flicker of recognition. “You didn’t just know that off the top of your head.” Not accusing, just stating fact.

“Nah, I asked FRIDAY.” Stark admitted. “Soooo… wanna come over?”

Yes. Yes, she did. The biggest benefit to their friends with benefits not-quite-a-relationship was not having to sleep alone. In those months after Siberia when they both felt so drained emotionally, it’d been nice for both of them to be able to just be close to someone who knew what shitty thing had happened that was making life miserable without having to talk about it.

While they fooled around a little bit, most of their ‘benefits’ involved snuggling, ethnic snack foods, and movies. And wearing Stark’s pajamas. _So fucking comfortable._ She’d sometimes slept on the couch in his lab while he worked. Not that they never talked about their feelings, but there was no pressure to do so.

Teasing, she asked, “What makes you think I wanna hang out with you after you dumped me for a bunch of politicians?”

Stark coughed, “I’m wounded, Top Gear. And here I was gonna offer you a weekend of schwarma and movies.”

“I dunno… What about Pepper?”

A notable pause, “There’s a right answer here, isn’t there?”

Sig laughed, “Probably.”

Tony grumbled, “Should’ve known there’d be a quiz. Let’s see… answers to riddles…. Time! No… Man! No…” He took a breath, “She’s glad you kept me alive and out of a mental hospital – all on the QT. Aaand maaaaybe the kid is bringing his academic decathalon team for a tour and Pep’s going out of town.”

Sigrid heard Tony cover the phone, something that sounded an awful lot like, ‘I’m handling it just fine!’ and then Pepper’s voice came on the line, “Hello?”

“Uh, hi. So, I just want to be clear on what’s going on here…”

“The kids will arrive Friday at 10 AM and I’ll assist with the tour. I’m on a panel the next day at the Harvard School of Business, so I’d like to… tag out for the sleepover.” Pepper’s calm confidence was reassuring.

“You want me to come over for pajama time to help your boyfriend babysit?”

“Essentially, yes.”

 _Weird…_ “So, anything off the table?”

“Pardon?”

“I just want to be clear on the boundaries here, Potts.” Silence from the other end of the line. _Good thing they were having this conversation._ “For example, the kids fall asleep and Tony and I make out for a while – is that a problem?” Additional (probably) stunned silence. “What if one thing leads to another?”

Her voice somewhat muffled, as though trying not to be overheard, “Tony told me you two had sort of a comfort ‘thing.’”

“That’s totally true – some of the comforting also involved making out and stuff.”

“And stuff…?”

“Yes. But not always.”

The gears turned in the mind of Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries. “I’ll have to meet you first before I make up my mind.” A brief pause, “And whatever I say – you’ll honor?”

“I’m not a homewrecker, Potts. I’ll even bring my own pajamas if you want me to.”

“Your own…? Whose pajamas do you usually wear?”

“Usually mine, unless I’m visiting Tony – then I wear his.” An audible sigh from the other end of the phone. “They’re comfier.”

The sound of the phone being shuffled around, and Tony was back on the line again, “Hey, what did you say to her Top Gear? I’m usually the one making her sigh like that.”

“I’m just trying to establish clear boundaries, so nobody’s toes get stepped on and no feelings get hurt.”

“Like what?”

“I may have asked her – hypothetically – if it was okay if we make out during the movie.”

“What?!”

“Hey – you two are the ones calling up the sexy babysitter to help Dad manage the kids during the pajama party.”

“Not true. Much.” Mumbling, “Hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“And now that you have, it sounds like more fun, doesn’t it? This is why we establish clear boundaries from the get-go. I’ll be there at nine Friday morning, so we can figure things out before the kids get there.”

“Fine.” Tony sounded sulky. Then alert again, “Is that ‘Party in the USA’ in the background?”

Miley betrayed her by belting out ‘So I put my hands up, they’re playin’ my song…’ Sigrid hedged, “Maybe…”

Tony groaned, “You _know_ how I feel about that.”

“I know… I just… couldn’t help it.” Sigrid didn’t feel particularly sorry. Garage tunes were totally her own prerogative.

“I meant it when I said every time you listen to Miley Cyrus I get another grey hair. It physically _hurts me_ knowing you like that stuff.” Tony sighed, and mumbled, “I know I’m gonna regret this… I’m lifting the pop music ban on Avenger properties. _Because._ ” He paused meaningfully, “Because it’s like closet drinking. It’s worse when you’re doing it alone.”

“Wow…”

“I know, I know… it’s a lot of responsibility… Just use your powers for good this time Death Proof.”

Sigrid paused, thinking of all the things that would nettle Tony… like the idea of teaching Thor ‘Oops… I Did It Again’ – not that she’d actually do it… probably. That’d actually be pretty funny. Instead, because schwarma did sound good, with or without the academic decathalon team, she said, “Ok Svetljachok, I promise… to do my best.” _Ok Firefly…_


	9. October 2017: FRIDAY's a Good Bro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky still didn’t understand why Stark let him come to the Tower. He wasn’t sure if the others knew he had access or not. It’d just been a bullet point in the otherwise somewhat brusque ‘welcome back’ email he’d received from the billionaire. “Palm print and user name ‘Ghost Protocol’ will get you into Avengers properties. FRIDAY will assist from there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working on this and updating! Not *totally* sidetracked! ;)

“October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain and November arrived, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bit at exposed hands and faces.”  
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

 

Phil Coulson watched his 2 o’clock visitor from behind his desk. His visitor, Everett Ross, leaned forward in his chair, “I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye Phil, but hear me out.”

Coulson settled back into his chair, “You’ve got the next twenty-five minutes to express your concerns.”

“Something Zemo said after we brought him in has been bothering me. I asked him how it felt to fail – and he just smirked and said, ‘Did it?’” He looked steadily across the desk at Coulson, “With most of the Avengers back stateside again –”

“I have no intention of locking up the Avengers again. In my opinion, they’ve more than earned their pardons. Shall we save some time and you can see yourself out?”

“Hear me out Coulson!”

Giving him the annoyed, but calm expression typically reserved for the late Secretary of State, Coulson motioned for Ross to continue.

The former Deputy Task Force Commander of the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre, continued, “Since most of the Avengers stateside again, I wanted to know what was being done to support them.”

Phil Coulson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Are you asking in an official capacity?”

Ross shook his head. “I…. Part of me just doesn’t want Zemo to get what he wanted – the destruction of the Avengers. The rest…?” He sighed. “I see what’s been done for Sergeant Barnes –”

Coulson raised his eyebrows, a signal that his visitor may be skating on thin ice.

“And I wonder what’s being done to support the other Avengers. Their trust in each other has been very grievously damaged. We’ve” he gestured between himself and Coulson, “put a lot on their plates – in the past and now, asking them to come back and wanting them to take up those responsibilities again.”

Phil nodded, listening, engaged. “Go on.”

“I’ve been thinking – you know – why were we at the Centre so afraid of them? Because they’re different? Maybe. Because of what they’re capable of? Maybe. But I think the fact that The Winter Soldier was Bucky Barnes solidified it for me – we were afraid of what they’d do if we keep using them as weapons to fight our battles… worried that they get tired of it.” Ross went on quickly, “I mean Steve Rogers was out of the ice for what? A few _months_ before he got thrown into the New York Incident? Natasha Romanov – defected from the KGB to work for SHIELD, revealed all those covert ops she’d been a part of when she helped bring down SHIELD’s HYDRA element? And it was on _her_ to watch out for herself? Until the Accords, Tony Stark was basically funding the Avengers himself…”

Coulson, taking advantage of Ross’s pause for breath, “You’re saying that… you don’t think they’ve been treated fairly?” suspicion coloring his words.

Everett Ross looked surprised at himself, “I suppose I am. I’m saying that we need to take care of them as _people_ if we want them to continue to be people we can rely on. Have any of them been evaluated for PTSD? Been offered therapy for what they’ve gone through? What does HR look like for them? Do they need to disappear to have a couple days off now and then or do they get vacation days?” Ross leaned back into his chair and sighed, “Long story short, I think we used them like tools to do a job no one else wanted – or _could_ do. And in the long run, people don’t like that. Being used, I mean.”

Thinking on his own experiences with teams he’d led, Coulson nodded, “No, they don’t. Taking this conversation as… an unofficial chat… what did you have in mind?”

Blinking at the change in tone, Ross said, “Uh… well, it seems like Dr. Rebecca Kaplan, the psychologist treating Sergeant Barnes seems capable, personable, and checks out on both of our background checks. Maybe see if she’d be willing to do evaluations? Be able to offer counseling or therapy for those who’d be interested – or who need it based on her evaluations?”

Phil jotted a few notes to himself. “Maybe she’d have some ideas for rebuilding the team that aren’t so… obvious.”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Barnes looked out the window of Avengers Tower, high over the city. The building belonged to Stark for a little longer. Barnes wanted the view. He rested his forehead against the glass, feeling the cold seep into his skin. The cold helped take his mind off the growing discontent he felt. The restlessness. Why couldn’t he just go back to Wakanda? He knew that wasn’t really an option, but wished it anyway. Bucky could hear the laughing lilt of Shuri’s voice, “You can’t hide from your problems forever, White Wolf.”

And as usual, she was right, but he felt like he’d lost so much of the progress he’d made while he was resting in Wakanda. His therapist, Rebecca Kaplan, said that it was probably like the difference between preparing for a trip and actually going somewhere. The two were equally important, but vastly different. Kaplan had also pointed out that healing would probably be a lifelong process, but that most of it would become easier with time. _Yeah, yeah, yeah…_

Bucky still didn’t understand why Stark let him come up here. He wasn’t sure if the others knew he had access or not. It’d just been a bullet point in the otherwise somewhat brusque ‘welcome back’ email he’d received from the billionaire. “Palm print and user name ‘Ghost Protocol’ will get you into Avengers properties. FRIDAY will assist from there.”

 _Assist?_ FRIDAY was _fan-fuckin’-tastic_. Apparently Ghost Protocol was also a privacy setting, so nobody came stomping up here after him. FRIDAY monitored SHIELD and Avengers-related communications and if anybody got too panicky looking for him, she’d notify Bucky to call in. He was pretty sure she’d report him if he was up here plotting anything nefarious (he wasn’t), but otherwise he was in a secure building. _Safe._ He didn’t _exactly_ come up here to hide…. Sometimes he just needed space to breathe without so much _pressure_. Sometimes he just needed a nap without having to look over his shoulder – or having _certain people_ with better social skills trying to force ‘fun’ on him. When looked at objectively, ‘hiding’ might be an applicable word.

During their sessions, Kaplan tried to underscore that while he had a lot of things to figure out, decisions to make for himself, and memories to come to terms with – that he wasn’t a broken thing that needed repair. Something to be set aright. That he’d had a long life with a gamut of experiences most people would struggle with, whether he liked them or not, they made him who he was now. She only broke out those kind of statements once in a while if he was really having a bad day. Fewer of those now.

He still had plenty of issues. Gaps in his memory. Sometimes he’d be speaking the wrong language and not notice until somebody pointed it out. (Natalya didn’t usually bother, she just kept up – which he was deeply thankful for.) Still, overall compared to the couple years he’d lived on the road and in Romania? Big improvement.

When he’d complained to Kaplan and tried to explain the restlessness he felt. The conversation had been brief – Was he in danger? No. Did he feel calm? Not really. Did he think he was a threat to anyone, including himself? No. (He’d sounded kind of sullen about that – even to himself). Then she’d asked if he’d put any further thought into meeting new people. Also, _no_. Not in any meaningful sense.

So… breathing exercises. Rationally, it was a sign of his progress that she hadn’t sent anyone to ‘monitor the situation.’ On the other hand, being left to his own devices – ‘figure it out’ – was extremely frustrating since for most of his adult life, that hadn’t exactly been encouraged. _Understatement of the century there, pal._ But, next week he was meeting with his therapist and a couple other people for some kind of ‘occupational therapy.’ Right after Steve got back from his trip to Norway to visit Thor.

Fuckin’ A he missed Wakanda.

What the fuck was occupational therapy?

“FRIDAY?”

“Yes sir?”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

FRIDAY didn’t call him by name because he’d asked her not to. Sometimes, names made him uncomfortable. ‘Bucky’ was the part of him that’d grown up with Steve in Brooklyn. Sergeant Barnes was a sniper, a Howling Commando, POW, and all that. The Asset or The Soldier was a weapon and weapons don’t have personal names. It wasn’t like he had multiple personalities – not exactly. He just remembered pieces of all of them and it was hard to make sense of who he was supposed to be now when he was all these guys kinda smooshed together.

FRIDAY was the only new friend he’d made since moving back to New York. She watched TV with him and he talked with her about what it was like to be an AI, how she viewed the people she interacted with, what it was like to watch a show when she had all the data about it already. She asked him why he liked certain shows more than others (they both liked _Star Trek: Next Generation_ and _Doctor Who_ ) and why he’d chosen her as a friend.

He’d thought about it for a while before answering. “I guess it started out as sort of a strategic thing… you know, play nice with the person who controls the building…. But it changed, you know? I think because you don’t bug me to talk. And you don’t keep lookin’ at me – expectin’ something. I mean you’re here and you can see, keep an eye on me and stuff…” He gave up and shrugged.

“I think I understand.” He thought that was all, but then FRIDAY spoke again, “I like you because you are one of the few people other than Mr. Stark to treat me like a person. To consider my opinions as valid as anyone else’s. I appreciate that.”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

“FRIDAY?”

“Yes sir?”

“What’s occupational therapy?”

“The Canadian Association of Occupational Therapists defines it as ‘the use of assessment and intervention to develop, recover, or maintain the meaningful activities, or _occupations_ , of individuals, groups, or communities.’”

“What?”

The AI explained, “It helps people learn or relearn how to do things that help give their life meaning. What those activities are depend on the individual.”

Barnes felt nervous. He hated not knowing. Strategies to combat this kind of anxiety…

• Gather data.  
• Analyze and assess possible outcomes.  
• Develop most advantageous course of action.  


“What do you think they’ll want me to do?” What kind of occupational therapy could there be for brainwashed assassins? _Former _assassin.__

____

____

There was a silence as FRIDAY thought. “I believe, sir, that they are likely to focus on some elements of self-care where your skills are – forgive me for saying so – lacking. Most likely work interests, leisure exploration, and social interaction.”

This was going to be _awful_. “What kind of work?”

“I don’t know, sir. Maybe some kind of volunteering? I wish I could assist you further.”

“You’re doin’ fine.”

Bucky spent a long time thinking about areas he might want to improve while watching movies that Tony Stark referenced when talking about him. Steve had a list? This was Bucky’s. Today’s selections? _The Manchurian Candidate_ with Frank Sinatra and _RoboCop_.

Areas to improve... cooking was one. Generally, he calculated nutritional value of on-hand foods and put them together to be as efficient as possible – a habit picked up during longer HYDRA missions. The combinations were not usually particularly palatable, but he’d had worse. Eating was something all the people he knew had in common.

Something else they had in common was that none of them _ever_ tried to eat his food. Steve, Sam, and Wanda stole food from each other – even from Natasha when she left anything tasty around. If they didn’t steal from him, it was either because they were **_really_** afraid of him or because it was stuff they didn’t want. From his other observations, he was more inclined to believe the latter. Thus, cooking would be a good skill to improve. Not that he wanted the others to take his food. That’d be annoying. To make something _worth_ stealing would feel pretty good though. Probably.


	10. October 2017: Walking in London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve tried not to glare at her, _really_. He could feel the tendon on the right side of his jaw tense and start to twitch, though. The worst part was that he had no good reason _not_ to like her. Sigrid fought HYDRA mercilessly, but wanted to keep Bucky safe. She hadn’t signed the Accords, but she hung out with Tony Stark. Maybe that was it… too many contradictions made it hard to get a solid read on her.

Hello, it's me  
I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet  
To go over everything  
They say that time's supposed to heal ya  
But I ain't done much healing  
\--Adele Adkins, Gregory Kurstin, “Hello”

 

Stepping off the plane at Heathrow Airport for a day or two of sight-seeing in London with Tony Stark and Sigrid was not high on Steve Rogers’ list of places he wanted to be. He was there for _Thor_. For the _team_. With any luck, they’d be in Norway tomorrow and get all this over with. God, what if Bucky had a panic attack? Would they even call? Maybe he should call Sam to make sure everything was going all right.

Steve’s phone buzzed with messages once he remembered to turn off airplane mode. Better than watching Sigrid and Stark laughing over afternoon tea. Taking selfies over crumpets and Earl Grey. No… it was one of those phone apps Natasha kept trying to teach him. Maybe both?

He tried to relax and enjoy the plate of sandwiches and pastries in front of him as he scrolled through the messages. Two from his dentist reminding him of an appointment he’d forgotten to cancel. One from Clint telling him to say hi to Thor and to give Stark a hard time for him. Followed by another (also from Clint) asking Steve to give Sigrid a hug for him. _Dream on bows for brains._ One from Natasha promising significant damage to his person if he let anything happen to Sigrid _or_ Stark.

It was what? Noon in New York? Bucky should be awake by now… Just a quick call… He wasn’t keeping tabs on him – just being a good friend… right? Periodically, Steve got the distinct impression that Bucky hid from him and that everybody else knew it. Steve ran his fingers through his hair and glanced at the crumbs on the empty plate in front of him – all that remained of a dozen tea sandwiches and cakes. Maybe he should call Sharon… he’d promised to take her out once things died down.

Sigrid was walking over… _what now?_ “Brought you some more sandwiches. Want to come with us? Going to show Tony the Broadway buildings. We’ll even get a tour of the new Vauxhall Cross building. Pretty sure Tony’s been there before, probably you too… but I haven’t.”

“Who’s gonna give _you_ a tour of the Secret Intelligence Services headquarters?” Steve asked, annoyed.

“A very cute tour guide who’s really looking forward to seeing you.” Sigrid sat down in the chair across from him and helped herself to one of the cucumber sandwiches.

Steve tried not to glare at her, _really_. He could feel the tendon on the right side of his jaw tense and start to twitch, though. The worst part was that he had no good reason _not_ to like her. Sigrid fought HYDRA mercilessly, but wanted to keep Bucky safe. She hadn’t signed the Accords, but she hung out with Tony Stark. Maybe that was it… too many contradictions made it hard to get a solid read on her.

Sigrid looked at him from across the table, “You okay Rogers? Your frown lines are deeper than usual.”

“Just tell me you didn’t use my name to get you in there.” He still sounded like more of a jerk than he meant to.

She leaned over the table and said, “Rogers, I wouldn’t use your name to…” Fed up, Sigrid balled her fists in her lap. “You know what? It’s not worth it. If you don’t want to go, I don’t care.” Sig glanced at her phone and tapped the screen before standing up.

“What are you doing?”

She replied, “Letting the cute tour guide know that you’re being a brat.”

Steve raised his voice, “I am _not_ being a brat!” Several elderly ladies glanced his way, their dubious expressions read loud and clear what they thought of him. Lowering his voice again, he repeated, “I’m _not_.”

Sigrid shrugged and walked away. Steve could hear Tony talking to her. “What did you say to him? C’mon Top Gear, you’re not supposed to piss him off – you promised, remember?”

“I brought him sandwiches and was completely civil.” Tony raised an eyebrow, and Sigrid added, “It’s true. Then, because he’s an ill-tempered brute, he was rude and accused me of dropping his name to get our little S.I.S. tour.”

“But – ”

“I know, but she wanted it to be a surprise.”

Tony leaned back into his chair, “So let me get this right… you’re saying Captain America – symbol of justice, patriotism, and virtue – is an ill-tempered brute and a brat.”

Sigrid nodded.

“Okay, just checking… making sure we were talking about the same guy.” Tony sighed and rubbed his forehead, “What am I gonna do with you, Princess?”

An American tourist talking loudly on her cell phone came in, so Steve couldn’t hear what Sigrid said that made Tony laugh. Stark bought chocolate covered jaffa cakes and more tea.

Sigrid laughed, “ _More_ cake Tony?”

“It’s fine Death Proof, we’re celebrating.”

“Oh?”

Steve _tried_ not to eavesdrop ( _really_ ), but the serum made it difficult sometimes. He was replying to new texts from Natasha and Sam – apparently someone in the shop tweeted about him being rude to Sigrid. Figures they’d take _her_ side.

Tony leaned across the table toward Sigrid, “Wanted you to be the first to know…” Steve glanced over and saw Stark’s eyebrows up, clearly excited. Tony whispered animatedly, “Pepper and I are getting married!”

Steve struggled to keep his face impassive. As rough as the last year or so had been for all of them, he was happy for Tony and Pepper.

“And we’re having a baby!”

Sigrid squeezed Tony’s hands, looking delighted, eyes sparkling, “That’s wonderful, Tony!”

“Really?” Stark sounded surprised.

Steve made an effort to look away and mind his own business, but he still heard Sigrid say, “Why wouldn’t I want you guys to be happy?” She paused, “Besides, Pepper and I make a good team.”

Stark, hesitantly said, “Yeah?”

Amusement evident in her voice, Sigrid said, “Sure – there’s a division of labor! Pepper gets the trips to Monaco, walks on the beach at Malibu, and a tiny Starkling. I get nachos, Vin Diesel movies, and karaoke with Parker’s academic decathalon team. That’s even, right?”

Tony leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, “How did I get this lucky?”

“’Cause you deserve it, Svetljachok.” Firefly.

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Ultimately, they did all go on the Secret Intelligence Services tour together. After all, Steve had to demonstrate that he was not rude or ill-tempered. He was a professional. _One hundred percent._ Sharon Carter met them at the SIS headquarters building at Vauxhall Cross – the cute tour guide.

After the tours, Sharon took them out for fish and chips. Through the whole day, Sigrid pointed out to the three of them places she and Peggy had gone, pubs that had let them drink for free, the place they’d almost been killed when an unexploded bomb went off. Since most of the time he’d been in London had been shared with Sigrid, it felt a little like coming home to remember Peggy and the Commandos during those days they’d been on leave. They’d been happy days.

After breakfast, while waiting for Stark to choose souvenirs for his nearest and dearest, Steve followed Sigrid as she strolled through St. James Park. Sigrid stopped on the path and waited for Steve to catch up. Pointing to a large tree, “That’s where Jacques Dernier took my picture and it was so windy?” The question in her voice asking Steve if he remembered too.

Steve smiled thoughtfully in spite of himself, “Yeah, you weren’t in uniform…. You wore that sweater and skirt that Bucky liked so much. Was cold then too.”

He looked over at Sigrid and saw she was watching him. Her eyes flashing silver with anger. Then the anger fell away as quickly as it had sparked, leaving Sigrid’s eyes a tired, leaden shade of grey. “Why didn’t you tell me Steve?” She leaned against the tree for support.

Steve could smell the wet pavement, damp from the morning’s steady drizzle of rain. He’d been dreading this conversation, but so far there was less shouting than he’d anticipated, so that was a plus. His mouth felt dry and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “I…” letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, “I just… Well, at first, I thought you know, maybe you already knew. After the whole thing with the Helicarriers… I don’t know… I told myself you knew. Knew you were looking for the Winter Soldier and I knew why. I just couldn’t…” Steve studied the lines in the pavement, the blades of grass on the lawn. “Kept telling myself that it was to protect him…” Steve made eye contact, “Really, though, I didn’t believe it…” frowning, “I think maybe I just wanted him to remember me before he remembered you….” He shook his head, “Stupid. Selfish."

There was something softer in Sigrid’s eyes now. She linked her arm through his and they walked on. In a quiet voice, she asked, “Did you love him?”

His body tensed, lines of emotion creased his brow. Then slowly, Steve relaxed his shoulders and gave the faintest hint of a nod.

She squeezed his arm and rested her free hand over the one curled through his elbow, but didn’t press for more. Steve realized with a jolt that this was probably why Stark liked her so much. He cleared throat and in his low, deep voice said, “I never said anything about it, you know. ‘Cause it was bad enough that he was stuck with a guy like me for a friend – sick all the time, like 90 pounds soaking wet and carrying a coupl’a bricks?” The self-contempt he carried with him everywhere gave an edge to his tone. “But he _saw_ me, you know?”

Sigrid nodded. “The winter before I met you two, I spent four months in Stalingrad, a month in Poland the next spring, and in and out of France, Germany, and Britain the rest of the year.” She looked up at Steve, “And that night when I met him for the first time, he offered me his coat – like I was a real girl, not some…” Her voice trailed off and she blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears.

“That’s Buck – always a goddamn gentleman…”

He managed to surprise a laugh out of Sigrid though, “Steven Grant Rogers! Language!”

Steve grinned.

“Why, Rogers… you’ve got dimples! So that’s what Sharon sees in you…” Sigrid winked at him.

He could feel himself blush. _A hundred years old and blushing like a schoolgirl._ “I like her, you know.”

Sig shrugged, “We like who we like and love who we love, Steve. For the record, I think she sees you too – not just the dimples.”

“Me too.” Steve could not for the life of him keep the self-satisfied smirk off his face.

Sigrid raised her eyebrows, “Oh, so you _like her_ , like her.” She paused, “Do you still…?”

“Like him?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

Steve considered, “Things changed after we got the serum…Erskine’s and Zola’s… I mean the dynamic between us changed. Maybe it wouldn’t have if we had some kind of heart to heart, but things were different then.” He paused. “And nine guys in an eight-man tent sorta made it awkward too.”

Sigrid laughed, “I’ve been told you can be funny, but didn’t believe it.”

Completely seriously, he asked, “Who told you that?”

From behind them, Steve heard Tony say, “That’s something I didn’t think I’d see…. Ever. What’s so funny Top Gear?”

They stopped and waited for Stark to catch up. Sigrid replied, “Steve was being funny, and I said that you told me he could be funny.” She glanced back to Steve, “Tony told me you played practical jokes and everything.”

“Yeah, when he’s not beating the snot out of somebody, Cap’s a riot.” Stark added with a little too much venom.

She elbowed Tony, “Rogers was apologizing for not telling me that Bucky was alive.”

“He what? Really?” Half-skeptical, half-surprised.

Sigrid slipped her arm out of Steve’s and slid her hands into her jacket pockets.

Steve bit his lips and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you… And I’m sorry I’ve been such a jealous asshole all these years.”

Steve ignored Tony’s whispered, “Language…” in the background.

He turned to Tony, “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you…”

“That your best friend murdered my parents?”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Never in a hundred years did Sigrid think she’d be part of this apology/argument and she seriously hoped that her eyes weren’t round as saucers.

“That your best friend murdered my parents?” The anger Tony’d held onto for the last year or so leaked out of the tight control he’d had over it. Stark’s voice cutting, “Which are you sorrier for? Not telling me about that or leaving me to die in Siberia?”

The color drained from Steve’s face. “Tony… I…”

“Save it Freezer Burn.”

Sigrid ventured, “Tony…” and touched his arm.

Tony shrugged away from her touch, “Don’t try to make me be reasonable, Fragolina.” _Little strawberry._

He _must_ be upset if he let that nickname slip…. Sig felt herself blush. That was usually the nickname he brought out when they woke up together and it was his turn to make breakfast, but he wanted to get out of it, ‘Pretty sure it’s your turn, Fragolina…’ and a kiss and well, she was out of bed making the toaster waffles and coffee. She was a sucker for those pretty brown eyes and it was hard to deny a guy who spent most of his adulthood with intense nightmares another thirty minutes or so of peaceful sleep.

“Pozhalujsta, Toshka?” _Please, Toshka?_

At least Tony also blushed a little when she used her private nickname for him. “Fine.” Stark waved his hand at Steve to proceed.

Steve stared at the ground, deep in thought. He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked up at Tony. “I keep thinking about that damn letter I wrote you. ‘That for the most part people haven’t let me down…’ Thinking that on paper it could be turned around – so it sounded like I thought you’d let us down.”

Tony’s frown led Sigrid to believe that perhaps this thought had crossed his mind more than once.

Continuing, Steve said, “Just meant that I’ve been fortunate in my friends – including you.” He pressed his lips together in a line. “Before the war, all I had was Bucky. When he fell…” Steve’s voice trailed off and he shrugged. “I didn’t have to crash the plane in the Arctic – those bombs needed pilots to steer and detonate them. Probably could’ve landed it anywhere… but I didn’t want to. Captain America got a hero’s death and to the ten or so people who really knew me, Steve Rogers was killed in action – not….” He sighed, “It was a golden opportunity.”

Sigrid could tell Rogers was biting the inside of his cheek. Tony’s expression showed nothing other than fierce concentration – that could mask any number of emotions, but he stuck his hand inside her jacket pocket and laced his fingers with hers.

“Came out of the ice and I didn’t even have that anymore. Just Peggy. And some guy with an eye-patch wanting me to go back to work.” Now Steve made eye contact with Tony, “Then there was you. You know, you reminded me of Bucky before the war? Witty,” Sigrid sensed some adjectives being excluded here, as Steve paused, “Got your way with just about everything, and you saw through all the Captain America stuff – saw through _my_ bullshit. And you brought us together – the whole group of us – gave us a home, someplace to belong. You’re the one who made us a family, Tony.”

Under his breath, Tony muttered, “Some family…”

Steve looked smaller standing on his own. “Then Bucky wasn’t dead – and I had another chance… to have a _life_. Like maybe if he was alive, I didn’t have to work so hard at –”

Sigrid filled in, “Trying to get killed?”

Years of misery apparent on his face as he made a face and shrugged. “Was gonna say, ‘trying to save everyone else.’”

“Potato, po-tah-to.”

Stark extricated his hand from her pocket. His no-nonsense voice cut through, “Then I tried to kill your golden boy.” His expression inscrutable, “I made you choose.”

Steve’s eyes sharpened, “Only because I was too much of a coward to tell you when I first found out. Kept telling myself that I was protecting both of you.”

Sigrid looked between them, “If you two are going to bicker over which one of you deserves to blame himself the most, I’m gonna go get coffee and a book since we could be here awhile.”

The two men looked at each other and then at Sigrid. She could hear Sharon’s voice greeting them from the path behind them, toward the street. Sig left Steve and Tony to meet Carter. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw them hug and heard Steve mumble, “Shouldn’t have left you there Tony.”

“Wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t lost my cool.”

“Or if I’d told you to begin with.”

Firm bro back-pats and they pulled away from each other. She turned toward Sharon again, and heard Tony say, “All right, Capsicle, you win – you’re way more to blame than I am.” Then heard Steve start to protest that it wasn’t _all_ his fault and the bickering turned into something familiar between the two without the walls of blame between them. Maybe not fixed, but a good start.

Sharon looked at Sigrid, “How’d you pull that off?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I really wish everybody could get along... ;)


	11. October-November 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked over Steve’s shoulder and winked at Sigrid, who was still watching them. Him? Was she watching _him_?
> 
> Steve stopped. “Buck? Did you wink at me?”
> 
> Bucky’s eyes snapped back, “No. Must be imaginin’ things in yer old age.” Then realizing this was a golden opportunity, he said, “I’ll be fine Stevie. I get around ok for a guy who’s a hundred. If I fall and can’t get up, I’ll just call Life Alert, I promise.”

“The Edge... There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”  
― Hunter S. Thompson, Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga

 

Steve had waved good-bye two days ago. It’d gone something like, “I put a list of phone numbers on the fridge. Just in case. The menus for the pizza place and the Indian restaurant that delivers are in the top drawer in the space behind the silverware.”

Bucky stood, hands shoved in his pockets, using all his willpower to convey a relaxed attitude and not give his best friend the murder glare. _Was it better that he was acknowledging it was a thing?_ Tony Stark rolled down the window from the waiting car, “C’mon Cap – we’re gonna miss the flight!”

Steve turned around to yell, “It’s your plane, Stark. It’ll wait.” Turning back to Bucky, “If you need anything, Buck, just call me….” The probably well-meaning lecture had the effect of causing Barnes to tune out at that point when he noticed the blonde from SHIELD’s garage peeping around Tony to see out the window. She waved and mouthed ‘hi.’

He tried to keep his eyes on the crease between Steve’s eyes, to give the illusion of concentration. He caught, “…It’s only going to be for a few days…” and thought Steve might be winding down, but no such luck. He looked over Steve’s shoulder and winked at Sigrid, who was still watching them. Him? Was she watching _him_?

Steve stopped. “Buck? Did you wink at me?”

Bucky’s eyes snapped back, “No. Must be imaginin’ things in yer old age.” Then realizing this was a golden opportunity, he said, “I’ll be fine Stevie. I get around ok for a guy who’s a hundred. If I fall and can’t get up, I’ll just call Life Alert, I promise.”

You’re not taking this seriously,” Steve frowned. _Seriously wish you’d get outta my face, punk._

“I’m actually really looking forward to it.” Uh-oh… a little too enthusiastic. Steve was giving him the hurt puppy eyes, followed by a wave of suspicion.

“I’ll have Natasha check in on you.”

If you don’t shut up pretty soon, pal, your gang’s gonna have to help me cover up your ‘mysterious disappearance.’ Not a one of ‘em would blame me either. You’d try the patience of a fuckin’ saint.

Barnes noticed motion in the car, Sigrid whispering to Stark, who patted her knee. She got out of the car and walked up the steps.

Steve glared at her, “What do you want?”

“Bathroom.”

Steve started to move toward the door, but Bucky recognizing a life-preserver thrown to a drowning man, stepped in quickly, “It’s ok – I got this.” Inside he muttered, “Think I can find my way back to your apartment from the front fuckin’ door.”

She laughed and he glared. Sig put her hand over her mouth, but giggled anyway, “Sorry – did he get to the part about he’d better not hear about you throwing any parties and to stay out of his liquor cabinet?”

At first, he thought that maybe Steve had actually _practiced_ his lecture, but then realized with the way she smiled, and her eyes twinkled that she was kidding. “Steve’s got a liquor cabinet?” he replied with interest, then lowering his voice conspiratorially, “He’d never hear about my parties.”

Sigrid laughed again. Seemed like she was in a good mood. “Gonna give me the tour?”

Bucky looked surprised, “Haven’t been here?”

She shook her head. “Rogers lived in DC a while, then in Avengers Tower.”

Barnes opened the door, “Here it is. Bathroom’s down the hall.”

“I lied. To rescue you.”

He grinned, “There’s place in heaven for you, doll.” With a combination of wonder and horror, he realized he was flirting with her, the HYDRA agent killing machine. _Name the emotions._ Fear? No – anxiety. Or excitement? He could hardly talk to the barista at the coffee shop down the block to buy fucking coffee, but he could flirt with Sigrid the Mechanic who apparently racked up dead HYDRA goons like points at the arcade. _Jesus Barnes._

On the other hand, she seemed to like it. He showed her around, and she scanned Steve’s bookshelves. “He’s got a lot of World War II stuff….”

So maybe she and Steve _weren’t_ an item – or at least she’d never been here before. Good. _Valuable intel._ “Yeah, we don’t watch any of it though ‘cause he thinks it might be ‘too triggering.’” Bucky finger quoted and rolled his eyes. “Everything I’ve watched with Steve has been rated G. And animated.”

“Don’t knock animation! There’s some good stuff out there.”

“The last thing I saw was _Trolls_ ….” Unimpressed.  


“I loved _Trolls_! So aggressively cheerful… like getting hit with a baseball bat of happiness and glitter. I made Tony watch it when it came on Netflix. Mostly because of the musical numbers.”

 _Stark?_ His stomach sank. Yeah, the whispering in the car, the pat on the knee… Keep breathing, idiot. Course a guy like Stark would like her – he’s got _eyes_ , right? He was surprised to hear his own voice steady, calm, “Didn’t take Stark for an animated musical kinda fella.”

Sigrid snickered, “Nope, not at all.” Between giggles she said, “He watches the musicals for me and I watch the disaster movies for him. We both like car chase and heist flicks.”

“What kinda disaster movies?” They stood in the kitchen, he held up a coffee mug and raised his eyebrows, silently questioning.

"Yes, please.” She thought for a moment. “Well, we had a shark-themed movie night for Midtown Science and Tech’s academic decathalon team. _Jaws_ – the original, _Sharknado_ , _Sharktopus_ –”

Barnes chuckled.

“No joke, Sarge – it’s a thing. And _Snow Shark_.” Sigrid sipped her coffee.

“What’d you get out of it?” He tried to pretend he wasn’t watching her lick her lips.

“Other than my comeuppance for making Tony watch _Trolls_ and _Mamma Mia_?” she smiled. “Well, we did have a karaoke contest, so it was pretty even.”

“How’d that go?”

“The karaoke?”

Barnes nodded.

“Ned and I pretty much trounced everybody else.”

“Oh yeah? What’d ya do?” _Who’s Ned?_

“You know karaoke?” Her eyebrows raised, both skeptical and intrigued.

Well now he’d kinda put his foot in it. He was only familiar with it because he’d read a manga series about a girl who dreamed about being a karaoke star. “A little. Never been.” Thinking about standing in front of a bunch of strangers, he felt his throat start to close.

She touched his hand, her cup in the other. “Yeah, Tony doesn’t sing either. Just ‘cause you like music doesn’t mean you want to perform in front of other people.”

He studied her face. Was she just saying this to make him feel better? Maybe, but her cool fingers resting on his hand soothed and the inviting soft grey of Sigrid’s eyes drew him in. “Gonna tell me about it or is it too embarrassing?”

Sigrid smiled, and he couldn’t look away from the sparkle in her eyes. “We had teams of two and all the teams had ten minutes to prepare. Each person had to do a song and each team had to do a duet. Took about an hour and a half. Ned and I clinched it with ‘Uptown Funk.’”

Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her pocket.

“Need to go?”

She nodded, “Tony talked Steve into getting in the car, so I’d better go before he changes his mind about it.”

“Could I call you sometime?” The words were out of his mouth, almost unbidden.

“Sure – still have my number?” When he nodded, she said, “Send me a text so I’ve got your number.”

He walked her back to the front of the building, not to be gentlemanly, just to spend a couple of extra minutes with her. Bucky went outside to hold the door for her. “Come back safe, ok?”

“Ok. You have some fun. No moping.”

“No moping – promise.”

Sigrid took a couple of steps down toward the sidewalk then turned around, “You’re gonna call me, right?”

He could feel Steve and Tony’s eyes through the car’s tinted windows and tried not to smile too much. “Can’t if you stand there forever.”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

He hadn’t called yet (and it’d only been a few days), but he’d texted her randomly when he’d found things he wanted to tell somebody about. Natalya had showed him how Instagram worked. And helped him figure out a good username (@notjustthesoldier). Most of the photos he took were of things like the cool crescent moon logo from the coffee shop down the block. He’d taken a partial photo of himself and the cup with the hashtags #visualpun #selfportrait #coffeeismylife #brooklyncoffeeshop #overthemoon. Natalya and Sam were his followers. It was both fun and a little exciting to be making something. Then it kinda grew.

Nat and Sam told Maria Hill and Phil Coulson, who’d told some of her folks at Stark Industries and his SHIELD spy guys, respectively. Bucky’d mentioned it to his therapist, Rebecca Kaplan, and she’d asked him if he’d like to talk about it at one of Sam’s group therapy sessions and it just kind of snowballed from there over the weekend and the beginning of the following week.

That was why he found himself on Halloween sitting on the couch in the former Avengers’ common area in a black mechanic’s jumpsuit, video game controller in hand, a beer and bowl of popcorn next to him with a Michael Myers mask on the couch. FRIDAY took the photo. Then he sent it to Sigrid.

**‘Happy Halloween #takingabreak’**

‘O.M.G.’

 _Was that good or bad?_ He texted, **‘too soon?’**

‘way ballsy, but I totally lol-ed’

**‘that a no on posting to instagram?’**

‘up to you, not sure your followers are gonna get it tho’  
‘unrelated, but you busy?’  


**‘no’**

‘call?’

**‘ok’**

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Sigrid sat cross-legged on her hotel room bed, trying to recall another time in her life when she’d ever intentionally exposed her identity to anyone. Her second night in Norway in roughly eight hundred years and it was turning out to be as sleepless the previous evening.

Tony had his own room here. Sharon and Steve were sharing. _Good for them._ She was glad _someone_ was having a good time on this trip.

Tomorrow Everett Ross, CIA bigwig, was going to escort their group to the conference center that had been set up for diplomatic meetings with the off-worlders. More welcoming than calling them aliens. Less unnerving than calling them gods.

When she’d met Ross earlier that afternoon, he’d looked her up and down critically, “I hope you’re not going like _that_ tomorrow,” referring to her ripped jeans, leather jacket, and baggy grey sweater. “You realize you’ll be meeting _royalty_.”

As far as she knew, Tony’d never told anyone that she was Asgardian. And she’d never told him the whole truth – that she was part Jotun, Frost Giant, too. Phil Coulson was a smart man and having met Thor (and Loki), Sig suspected that Coulson had his suspicions about her. Ostensibly, though, she was there because she knew both Stark and Rogers and as far as their ideological divide went, she was in the middle. However, she knew that this was the first time she’d ever met another Asgardian – other than her mother. She was _terrified_.

Mostly to distract herself, Sigrid tried to focus on what to wear, what kind of impression she wanted to make. Steve and Tony knew Thor already and were friends. They’d be wearing something appropriate, but didn’t have to impress. Agent Sharon Carter would be there in an official capacity, so likely a well-tailored suit with a jacket to conceal a sidearm for her.

Sigrid was stuck between wanting to make an impression and wanting to fade into the background. When she’d asked Tony for his opinion, he’d told her to ‘Go big or go home. This is what you came here for Top Gear.’

Flopping back on the bed melodramatically, Sig whooshed a sigh, arm over her eyes. _Bzzzt._ Bzzzt. She rolled onto her stomach and opened her phone to a picture of Bucky dressed up like the killer from the _Halloween_ movies, but maskless and playing video games. She snorted. _Damn, Steve would have an aneurism if he saw this._

‘too soon?’

She was loving the photos and short text conversations they’d been having over the past few days. If possible, he was funnier than when she’d known him before. Maybe just quicker back and forth communication…. And he’d laughed at her photo of the bell pepper-shaped teapots when she’d sent it with the comment, ‘don’t think you 2 have met….’

‘call?’ Was she being selfish wanting to talk about being nervous to meet Thor and Loki – the guy who’d tried to take over New York as a jumping off point for the world? She was still a little bitter about missing that.

‘ok’

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Sigrid answered the phone, “Hello?”

She answered. _Well, what did you expect, idiot?_ She asked you to call her. Why was he panicking? Maybe because he’d watched the video of the garage fight she’d had with those security guys (twice… well three times, but only three). _Ninety-four seconds._ And one of them had shot her. She hadn’t mentioned that in the story she’d told Steve. Slowing the playback, he noticed her hesitate and redirect her blows to be nonlethal. _Holy fucking shit._

Finally, his brain managed to get a signal through to his mouth. “Isn’t it late there? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Her voice sounded small, “Yeah, probably.”

“But?”

“But I can’t sleep.”

He waited for her to continue, but when she didn’t he asked, “How come?”

Taking a deep breath, Sigrid said, “Because I’m nervous about meeting Thor.”

She was with Tony, but a Thor fangirl? _Let’s not jump to conclusions, pal._ “Oh?” Noncommittal. Open-ended.

“I… well…” she took another breath. “He’s Asgardian…”

“Uh-huh… and you’re afraid of aliens?” That didn’t seem right.

“No… it’s just that I am too, but I’ve never met anyone else besides my mother.”

“Wait. Seriously? That means… How old are you?”

“Would you take freakin’ ancient as an answer?”

“C’mon… try me.”

“Ok… remember, you asked….”

“Yeah, yeah. Out with it.”

She hedged, “You know William the Conqueror, Norman Conquest of England?”

“Vaguely…” He’d had something in school about that. Eighty-plus years ago.

“Well, I was almost a hundred by then.”

“So you’re tellin’ me you’re more than a thousand years old? What the fuck?” Was she teasing him? Making fun of him? To FRIDAY, he said, “Polozhite ee na jekrane.” _Put her onscreen._ That meant she could see him too, but he had to know.

She looked at where her Starkphone was projecting his hologram sitting on the floor in front of the big couch in the Avengers Tower commons area. She wasn’t crying now, but she had been – the trails of tear-streaked mascara told their silent story. _Sooo… not kidding then._

He mumbled, “Izvinite.” _Sorry._

She shrugged, “Ne bespokojtes' ob jetom.” _Don’t worry about it._

“Ty govorish' po-russki?” _You speak Russian?_ Kind of an exciting development there. Right now, the only ones who understood him without a translation device were Natalya and FRIDAY.

She glared, “Da, ochevidno….” _Yeah, obviously…._

“I’m sorry… just sometimes Natalya says things just to see if I’ll believe her. See if I’m thinking for myself or just following her like another handler.”

Sigrid’s shoulders slumped, “I shouldn’t have given you the bitch face.”

She leaned back and held the pad differently and Barnes could see she was propped up on the bed in her hotel room. He half-smiled, “You’re still talkin’ to me, so that’s a good sign. Makin’ a mental note not to ask you other sensitive questions like your weight or your real name.” He paused. “Swear I had a conversation like this before…” He rolled his shoulders, dissatisfied with the sense of déjà vu, “A, pofig.” _But, whatever._

She smiled, “Just common sense, right? People who hide for a living can be touchy about stuff like that.”

He rolled his eyes, “Does Stark know?” Fair to ask if her boyfriend knows something like that. Right?

“He knows I’m Asgardian and understands it means I’m a lot older than I look, but he’s never… um… asked for historical context.” At the end she smiled.

“You makin’ fun of me?”

“A little.”

Really that smile should be used instead of pain medication, the way it lit up her face could make a guy forget everything else. “Can I ask you somethin’ else?”

Tipping her head to the side, she said, “You can ask….”

“You do magic too? Like shooting lightning out of your whatever?”

She laid back and laughed, punching the bed next to her until her neighbor in the room next door pounded on the wall. Between bursts of laughter and quieter snickering, Sigrid said, “I do _not_ shoot lightning out of my _whatever_ …!” A brief pause to re-compose herself, “Can’t speak for Thor, though,” which dissolved them both into fits and bursts of very uncool, but genuine laughter.

After their laughter died down, Bucky noticed that Sigrid finally looked ready to sleep, though he’d also noticed she hadn’t answered his question. _Let it go, Barnes._ “Feel better?”

Sigrid nestled into her pillow and hummed a yes.

“Still nervous?”

She shook her head and yawned.

“Need a bedtime song?” He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips, but now he was stuck.

“Ok.” Sigrid closed her eyes, then half-opened them sleepily, “Fais de beaux rêves, mon cher.” _Sweet dreams, my dear._

“Toi aussi, ma choupinette.” _You too, cutie._ “An’ if you don’t like it, blame Wilson. It’s the only one I can think of right now.” He softly sang the pieces of Sam Cooke’s “Nothing Can Change This Love” that he remembered (quite a bit since Sam Wilson was on kind of a Cooke kick lately).

> If I go a million miles away  
>  I'd write a letter each and every day  
>  'Cause honey, nothin',  
>  Nothin' can ever change this love  
>  I have for you  
>  …  
>  Oh, you're the apple of my eye  
>  You're cherry pie  
>  And oh, you're, you're cake and ice cream  
>  Oh, you're sugar and spice  
>  And everything nice  
>  You're the girl of my, my, my, my dreams

He waited until she was asleep, then hung up. Followed this with a few baking how-to shows, trying to pre-game for next week’s occupational therapy. Wanted to have some idea about what to expect. Didn’t _look_ too hard.

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Barnes’ first thought was thinking he must’ve fallen asleep on the couch, followed rapidly by realizing he was trudging through ankle-deep snow somewhere, backpack slung over his shoulder. Beating back a wave of panic and nausea, he felt his pockets. Bucky found his phone, battery and SIM card stored separately, and reassembled it to see if he had signal.

 _Christ_ … he’d been, well… the last time he’d had a dissociative episode, was Bulgaria (his best guess, anyway), before he’d tried to settle down in Bucharest – about three years ago. He didn’t count when Zemo triggered the Soldier. Shuri’s work with him had broken the control HYDRA’s code words had over him, but the Soldier was still part of him. He’d thought that maybe they’d reintegrated… through the course of that treatment and with no new episodes…. _Well, shit._

He sat down on a fallen tree, then changed his mind and slid to the ground, the trunk shielding his back. Heart hammering in his chest, he looked at the phone. November 2. Not too bad… Day and a half. Still… a lot could happen in that amount of time.

What’d happened that the Soldier needed to take over? Bring him somewhere so… _rural_? Well, sometimes approaching life like a mission wasn’t awful.

MISSION: Figure out What. The. Fuck.

1\. Contact FRIDAY for information, fill in details  
a. Determine location  
b. Circumstances surrounding entry into fugue state  
c. Fill in memory gaps if possible

2\. Determine from above if he was a danger to himself or others.  
a. If yes, turn self in to SHIELD  
b. If no, damage control – proceed to 3

3\. Contact Natalya, Steve, or Sam depending on information gathered in 1.

“Horosho.” _Good enough._

He laid down in the snow and felt childish doing it, but the cold powder between his fingers calmed him. Tied him to… something important. Could almost taste it, but the memory remained unreachable.

Barnes dialed, “Privet? FRIDAY?” _Hello?_

“Hello, sir. What can I do for you?”

 _Breathe in slowly through the nose and then release._ “Think I’m lost. Can you tell me where I am?”

“You’re still in the woodlands surrounding the new Avengers facility upstate.”

“Been keepin’ tabs on me?” He wasn’t sure if he was offended or relieved.

“Your behavior was a little odd, so yes, I did.” She paused, then asked, “Should I send you the video?”

“Uh… yeah.”

He had fallen asleep on the couch (at least he was right about _something_ ). From his body language, not a nightmare. When he’d woken up, he had started packing his bag. He’d asked FRIDAY for somewhere colder that he could go where people wouldn’t question too much why he’d gone there. Somewhere he could go without drawing attention to himself. She’d sent him here.

“No trouble on the way, FRI?”

“None, sir.”

 _That’s a fuckin’ relief._ Probably not endangering anyone then…. “Anything else I should know?”

“You ordered skis and boots for everyone who has a permanent room at the new facility.”

“What?” _Seriously… WTF?_

“It didn’t seem unreasonable since the grounds have suitable terrain for cross-country skiing.”

“Ok. Thanks, doll.” If that was the strangest thing he’d done, then that wasn’t so bad.

_On to damage control._


	12. November 2017: Nordic Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really, Loki should try to sleep. Tomorrow would be, if nothing else, extremely trying. Both Tony Stark – the Iron Man, and Captain Rogers would arrive. They’d be guests of the court and after any official business, there would be drink and storytelling. How would Thor tell the story of Asgard’s last days? Loki had no doubt of being unwelcome during their revelries. For a world that considered forgiveness to be divine and justice to be the province of their gods, its people held fast to their grudges and petty conflicts.

> People like us  
>  Know how to survive  
>  There’s no point in living  
>  If you can’t feel the life  
>  We know when to kiss  
>  And we know when to kill  
>  If we can’t have it all  
>  Then nobody will  
>  \--David Arnold and Monty Norman, “The World Is Not Enough” performed by Garbage

 

In what was loosely being referred to as ‘New Asgard,’ Loki snapped his book shut and threw it against the wall, aggravated with… well, a great many things. Thor’s glowering behind closed doors about the narrow-mindedness of the mortals for not welcoming hundreds of alien refugees, neared the top of the list. Maybe it was just the struggle with himself over not telling Thor I-told-you-so. He had tried to talk Thor out of this plan of just showing up and expecting it all to work out. Usually Thor’s plans worked out eventually. Like Sakar. And let’s not forget destroying Asgard. _It’s not a place… – ha._

Managing their people while Thor played diplomat – _scary thought, that_ – also less than ideal. Now that Asgard’s remaining people had regained solid ground beneath their feet without an estranged goddess of death wreaking havoc upon them, they were starting to remember their previous misgivings about their king’s brother.

Then, to top it off, Heimdall had come to him and Thor last week, “Prepare yourselves. She’s coming.” When questioned further, all either of them had gotten was, “Asgard’s lost daughter journeys to greet you.” Not at all sinister after the reunion with the _last_ ‘lost daughter of Asgard’ went so well.

So, while he was supposed to be sleeping – or at least lounging indolent in his room’s window seat, Loki’s mind raced with all the possibilities, their outcomes, and ways to mitigate the fallout from such a meeting. He could hear his mother’s words in his mind, ‘a prince of Asgard must remain gracious to _all_ guests of the court,’ and almost smiled. He and Thor _had_ been unruly children.

Really, he should try to sleep. Tomorrow would be, if nothing else, extremely trying. Both Tony Stark – the Iron Man, and Captain Rogers would arrive. They’d be guests of the court and after any official business, there would be drink and storytelling. How would Thor tell the story of Asgard’s last days? Loki had no doubt of being unwelcome during their revelries. For a world that considered forgiveness to be divine and justice to be the province of their gods, its people held fast to their grudges and petty conflicts.

 _Well, no matter._ He didn’t care for Stark or Rogers either and had no desire to sit around a hearth to be the target of their mockery. Rather than dwell on that black seed of anger, Loki returned to contemplating magical traps for lost daughters and protections for himself, Thor, and the other people who’d be present tomorrow.

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

The next day, Sigrid slept late and missed her ride with Steve and Tony. Instead, she’d spent longer than intended getting her hair done. Painful too – it felt like the stylist had pulled it all out. Looking in the mirror at the salon, it looked fantastic, a loose braid across the back of her head, loose curls. She looked like a goddamn princess. Now, after not properly planning for the dampness of the air and the length of the car ride – not to mention getting dressed in her ‘meetin’ royalty’ clothes, the elaborate coif had started to slide into a lazy semblance of its former glory. Well, with any luck, they (all of the they’s) wouldn’t be focusing on her hairdo.

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

“I thought you planned to bring your new ally, Metal Man,” Thor said personably.

“Yeah, well, her zipper got caught or something, I guess,” Stark grumbled back. “Speaking of fashion statements, how’s it goin’ Reindeer Games? Still goin’ with that hat…. Huh.”

The irony of two actual gods sitting at the front of a Midgardian religious building, but outside of the cathedral’s holy space had entertained Loki for a while. The architecture of Stavanger’s Domkirken reminded him in some ways of Asgard’s spacious halls – the high arching ceilings, the long windows letting in the last of the afternoon’s light. Loki felt grudging respect for the craftsmen who had built and furnished the structure and their remarkable attention to detail. What those mortals had been able to create with the primitive means at their disposal… simply awe-inspiring. Not that he’d ever say so. Awe was _supposed_ to be private after all.

After some hours of meetings, greetings, and diplomats dazzled by Thor’s pearly white teeth (and people wondered why Loki periodically felt the need to stab Thor…), just when Loki’s patience was at its thinnest, orange sparks appeared and Earth’s wizard with the companion cape stepped through a portal. The officious man, Ross of the United States Central Intelligence Agency, acted as though he’d swallowed an insect, spluttering and making brief whispered statements, “You can’t be here! This is an official…” blah, blah, blah. At least Strange paid the man as little attention as possible.

In fact, Strange turned to Stark and Thor. “I detected a spike of magical activity and thought I’d come investigate.” One, two, three, four, five pairs of eyes turned toward Loki. The expressions of Thor, Strange, Stark, Rogers, and Ross darkened as they glared at him.

Incredulous, Loki demanded, “What? I’ve been standing here with you all afternoon!” This _‘magical activity’_ business was _exactly_ why he’d ultimately decided to forgo any elaborate protection charms in favor of reserving his strength for when it was required. He felt Thor’s heavy hand fall on his shoulder, keeping him in place. The message clear – stop this _now_ and I’ll deal with you later.

None of them had noticed the woman approach. She’d touched Stark on the arm and whispered to him. Stark rolled his eyes and put on a long-suffering expression, “You’re killin’ me, Smalls,” and gave her a nudge.

Midgard’s inhabitants often seemed to have unusual names, but Loki assumed ‘Smalls’ was another of Stark’s nicknames. The woman was anything but. Her heeled boots put her easily as tall as Rogers or himself. Not quite as tall as Thor, though.

She stepped forward reluctantly and raised her hand tentatively, “Doctor? I think that might’ve been me…” she bit her lip, and a lock of pale blond hair slipped out from its fastenings and fell over her forehead. “I was going to… um. Go for something more dramatic, but I, ah… changed my mind.”

Loki noticed she held her hands clasped behind her back when she spoke. The slight tremor in her fingers when she pushed the hair away from her face. Her face remained carefully composed, but the fear around her was so thick Loki could almost taste it. Did the others not notice her release her breath and square her shoulders, forcing a respectful, calm posture?

He glanced at the faces watching her. Strange examined her impersonally. Everett Ross looked like he wanted to throttle her. Thor’s expression was, if anything, darker than before. While many of Asgard’s daughters could work simple charms and illusions, most did not possess magic strong enough to draw the Earth wizard from his home in New York.

No one spoke – the room so quiet at that point that even with his superior hearing, Loki could hardly hear anyone breathing. Silence becoming oppressive, Loki moved to speak before anyone else gathered their thoughts. Ignoring the building tension, he said, “Welcome lillesøster. Loki of Asgard.” He gestured to Thor, “My brother, Thor, King of Asgard.” While Loki didn’t smile, he did his best to at least be courteous, _seem_ friendly. “I believe you’re acquainted with Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers.”

She nodded and offered Loki her hand. He took her fingers lightly and turned to Everett Ross, unable to remember his title, “Everett Ross, CIA – have you met?” Again, she nodded. “And Midgard’s Sorcerer Supreme, Doctor Strange.” _Sorcerer Supreme_ did have the edge of a taunt – he couldn’t help himself.

She curtsied deeply, “Your Majesty. Your Highness.” Rising again and shaking Strange’s hand before he (or the possessive drapery) noticed, “Well met, Doctor.”

As if released from a spell (though there’d been none), the other men went into motion. Thor growled for Heimdall. Stark and Rogers looked between themselves, wondering what – exactly – had gone so wrong. Orange sparks of magic crackled at Strange’s fingertips. Ross glared and spoke in undertones into his comm.

With growing indignation, Loki realized that none of them – not even her companions – planned to intercede on behalf of this woman. None of them noticed the way she carefully controlled her breathing. Her terror only leaking through the mask of composure with the slight flare of her nostrils as she inhaled.

Undoubtedly, he and Thor would have words later, but for now Loki was going to be his mother’s son. He stepped forward and offered her his hand, which she accepted warily. He led her to recently vacated spot in the front row of uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs. “With Stark and Rogers as your travelling companions, you must’ve had an extremely tiresome journey.”

Heimdall stepped forward and stood between the gathered group of dignitaries and where Loki stood with the woman. Facing the two, Heimdall stood with his back to his king. Loki thought he meant to defend against this daughter of Asgard, but the posture was wrong. Belatedly, Loki realized what he’d interpreted as Heimdall’s anxiety when informing him and Thor of her intention to come had been anticipation – _excitement_. With this revelation, Heimdall’s stance also made sense – he wanted to see the girl with his own eyes, not just with his gifted sight.

Seeing Heimdall with his ceremonial armor and his sword, Hofud, at his side, Loki thought she might be intimidated, but to his surprise, the woman rose again, her entire countenance alight with joy. Heimdall nodded to her and she broke from where she stood and ran up to meet him, flinging her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. He could hear her whisper to Heimdall, as she hugged him, “Thank you, for watching over me all these years.” Loki could not hear his response, though, but the Protector of the Nine Realms (was it still nine or only eight now with Asgard-the-place gone?) wiped his eyes as she pulled away.

Heimdall turned to face Thor. “Your Majesty, I have the great pleasure of announcing Skadi Thiazisdottir.”

Thor tried to keep his face expressionless, which looked unnatural on a face so used to laughter. “Welcome Thiazisdottir.”

Careful to keep his face neutral as Thor’s brows knit together, Loki was not surprised that the wizard, Strange, stepped forward. “Excuse me Odinson. Ms. Vinter?”

She nodded and spoke a little too quickly, still nervous, “I never liked Thiazisdottir – doesn’t really roll off the tongue. Very hard to spell in runes too.” Ms. Vinter bit her lip, “Is it time for the magical cuffs?” She offered her wrists.

Strange took her hands and examined her palms. Then slowly turned them over to examine the backs of her hands. Finally, he studied her eyes one at a time. “How long has it been since you arrived on Earth? Do you come back and forth periodically or…?”

Vinter blinked. “I’ve always lived here. On Earth I mean. I’ve never been anywhere else.”

Strange frowned, “You have power like that and expect us to believe you just never use it?” Challenge in his voice, but not necessarily distrust.

She was quiet a long moment before speaking and Loki tried to identify all the emotions that flitted across her features before settling on the two he thought most likely: utter terror and an almost crushing grief.

“Doctor… I know what people are capable of. I lived through the Dark Ages.” She paused, suppressed emotion constricting her voice, “My mother did not.” Loki thought she’d finished speaking, but then she added, “It is far better to hide and survive.”

On impulse, Loki reached forward, putting his hand on her shoulder – a feeble attempt at comfort. He wasn’t sure what happened next. He still felt the woman’s cold skin – bitingly cold – under his hand, but instead of the dimly lit cathedral, he saw blindingly white snow. And trees. Evergreens, trunks nearly black in contrast with the snow.

Alone. In the wilderness. _Very funny Strange._ At least he wasn’t falling this time…. Loki surveyed his surroundings, turning a slow 360 degrees. No. Small footprints. Not alone then.

He called using allspeak, “I know you’re there. Come out.”

Loki hadn’t known exactly what to expect, but a small girl with wide silver-grey eyes was not at the top of the list. She sucked her thumb thoughtfully, but didn’t seem to be afraid of his sudden appearance.

“Hvadan komstu?” _Where did you come from?_ Her small voice curious.

A child speaking the Old Tongue? Where had Strange’s magic sent him now? He sighed and crouched lower to be closer to her eye-level. Not seem so intimidating. “Frá langt í burtu.” _From far away_. “Býrd fjölskylda pfín nálægt?” _Does your family live nearby?_

She looked at him and solemnly shook her head no. Truthfully, he’d never seen such a filthy child. Her tattered woolen garment hung around from her small shoulders, seemingly tied together with other bits of wool and plant fiber. No shoes, no coat.

Unable to mask the concern in his voice, “Ertu týndur?” _Are you lost?_ Without proper attire or shelter, the child would freeze.

The last thing he expected to hear from her was laughter. “Nei, pfetta er heimili mitt.” _No, this is my home._ She still seemed curious, but watched him like a wild thing – wary.

This conversation taxed Loki’s recollection of his childhood studies of the language. Fortunately, they were unlikely to discuss anything beyond fairly basic conversation topics. “Ertu svangur?” _Are you hungry?_

Loki sat down in the snow. He usually kept a few snacks in a small pocket of time-space. He reached in – still there, thank the Norns – and pulled out an apple, two cookies, and a pint bottle of milk. Set them in front of him in the snow and began cutting slices off the apple with a dagger he’d called to hand with a flash of his green magical energy.

“Komdu og borda litla systur.” _Come and eat little sister._ “Epli, smákökur og mjólk.” _Apple, cookies and milk._

“Töframadur!” she gasped with awe. _Wizard!_

She moved closer and he tossed her a slice of apple, which she licked experimentally. Her eyebrows shot up with delight. “Bragdast vel!” _Tastes good!_

The girl made up her mind and sat across from him, the picnic between them, then produced two small carved figures from the pocket of her dress and pretended to feed them bites of apple. Loki couldn’t be exactly sure, but thought she said something like, ‘It’s all right my little one, you don’t need to be afraid. The wizard is my friend. Taste the wonderful things he’s brought us!’ If the apple had tasted good, she _loved_ the cookies.

As he watched, he saw the girl make tiny dishes for her dolls. He didn’t think anything of it at first due to his internal battle between being charmed by the girl’s play – and with her for including him (she’d handed him a tiny plate with a tiny piece of the cookie) – and being annoyed with Strange for sending him to play tea party with a feral child.

No. Not feral. Her play was very proper. He said, “Ljúffengur! Thú ert mjög gódur matreidari!” _Delicious! You’re a very good cook!_ Which was received with delighted giggles on her part.

Then he noticed the tiny plates and cups. Made of ice. Child’s toys, not intricate by any means, but would be mistaken for glass anywhere else. He asked her, “Thú gerdir pfetta?” _You made this?_

She nodded, uncertainty clouding her features.

“Mjög gódur, lítill töframadur.” _Very good, little wizard._ “Hvad heitir pfú?” _What’s your name?_

She thought for a moment, then brightened and said, “Ísstúlka.” _Ice girl._ “Leiktu vi mig, eldri bródir?” _Play with me, big brother?_ Clever little thing. He didn’t mind that she lied about her name.

Loki played tea party. When he asked why her other wooden figure was turned away from the food, she’d explained that he was always grouchy and complained a lot and followed up by saying, ‘you can be him.’ So Loki complained about the weather, that the cookie was too dry, not enough milk, no tea. And on and on, to Ísstúlka’s great satisfaction.

Loki had never spent much time with children, indeed had never truly given much thought to having a family of his own. He’d always imagined Thor as the one with the doe-eyed bride and scads of children clinging to their parents’ ankles and tugging at their clothes. But why couldn’t they both have that? Or something like it anyway. Surely there was at least _one_ woman in the Realms who’d prefer him over Thor – or anyone else for that matter.

In the next instant, the cathedral took shape around them again. Strange glanced down at the Eye of Agamotto and back to Loki and Vinter. In a low voice he said, “My apologies. I hope you didn’t experience anything too… untoward.”

 _A vision._ A memory – like those he’d forced Valkyrie to remember on Sakar. That was the only reasonable explanation. _Obviously._ Still, the sounds rang in his ears, the smell of the forest hung in the air around him. Didn’t it?

She turned to study his face. Loki’s conviction that he’d seen some kind of vision or memory of her past wavered. Her grey eyes softer now, tears hovering at the edge of her lashes as she blinked. _Recognition._ She whispered so softly that he wasn’t sure if anyone else heard her, “Töframadur…” One hand covered her mouth, the other hovered near his face, not daring to touch. “I thought I made you up….”

Having just been there _literally_ seconds ago, his emotions a jumble, Loki tapped her on the forehead, “Takes one to know one, lillesøster.” _Little sister._ Switching back to the modern Norwegian word.

She slipped her arms around him and hugged him. It’d been a long time since Loki had felt particularly brotherly. He’d _never_ felt fatherly, but just now, without anyone to play a role for, he’d just been… himself… and he felt _responsible_ for her... whether she was grown up or not. After all, he’d just been there.

Loki tried to ignore the others in the room – Thor, Rogers, Stark, and all the rest. His mind kept working, leaping from idea to idea then coming back to Thiazisdottir…. It sounded familiar…. Wait. _No… surely not._ His childhood history lessons resurfacing in his mind. Laufey’s brother was called Thiazi… Who had… made his home on Midgard – part of the reason the Aesir had gone to war with the Jotun to begin with…. _Perhaps the Realms were not so vast after all…._ Loki’s mouth went dry and his chest tightened. She was his cousin. Perhaps most importantly, and a small, but growing point of pride – she was _his_ cousin, not Thor’s.

A throat cleared next to them. Both looked up to see Tony Stark looking concerned. “You ok, Princess?”

Sigrid’s eyes focused on Stark, nodded, then, blinked, realizing she should explain. She glanced back to Loki, taking a small step away and pulling her arms back to herself. “He visited me when I lived in the forest. In Russia.”

Stark frowned slightly, “You lived in a Russian forest?”

“When I was a little girl, I lived there for a long time.” One of the tears slipped over the edge of her lashes.

Stark considered Loki and then looked back to her, “If you say so, it’s good enough for me, _La Llorona_.” giving her hand a squeeze. She huffed a sniffly laugh.

Stark turned to Thor and the rest of the assembled bigwigs at the front of the room, “And I’d like to present Sigrid Vinter. Easier to spell, better sound to it.”

Loki added, “My cousin.”

Heimdall nodded once and Loki could see Thor reaching back to their history lessons for the same information that had sounded so familiar. Thor approached and embraced her, “Well met, Sigrid Vinter – daughter of Njord and Thiazi.”

Of course, Thor _would_ try to show him up. And of course, now that Thor was smiling again, everyone else smiled too. _Imbeciles._ Loki stifled the urge to roll his eyes at the cheerful small talk buzzing around him.

Someone had suggested drinks and the party now walked toward a bar Sigrid, Stark, and Rogers had found a few days ago. Picking up the thread of Sigrid’s conversation with Thor amongst the other conversations around him, Loki found that they’d moved from family to Thor’s next favorite topic – Mjolnir… and now Stormbreaker. Thor was showing it off now…. By the Norns, if she ooohed and aaahed over it the way the women had at the space ports they’d been to, Loki would disavow any relation between them.

Loki cringed internally when Thor took the battleaxe off his back for her to admire.

She looked at it and hummed appreciatively – rather tepid compared to other females. “How sharp is it?”

“What?”

“The blade of the axe part. How sharp is it? Can I touch it?”

“Yes?” Thor sounded much less confident than he had a moment ago talking about forging it with the help of a rabbit in space.

Loki smirked to himself when she tried the edge and nodded, “Yeah, I suppose that’d get the job done.” _Lukewarm praise indeed._

Thor seemed affronted, “You prefer a smaller weapon?”

“No, just mine are usually sharper,” she shrugged. “That’s all.”

“You try it then.” He moved to hand it to her. This was where the drunkards in Asgard’s taverns had gotten their toes broken when handling Mjolnir. Stormbreaker was no different – Loki had tried. The weapon still had to consider the wielder worthy.

Sigrid put up her hands, “I don’t want to steal your thunder, big guy. Can light up the sky without lightning.”

Thor huffed an unconvinced laugh.

Sigrid raised an eyebrow then looked at Loki and Strange, “Want to see?” She bit her lip, trying not to look _too_ confident.

Strange nodded his assent, as did Loki. He wanted to see what kind of power his little wizard had. Stark looked over, “You gonna do that one thing?”

“No. That’s not very impressive.”

“It’s funny though…” Stark grumbled.

“Maybe later, Mr. Monopoly.”

Rogers spoke up, looking alarmed, “Not…”

She retorted, “Seriously? You think I’d do something like that on a street packed with civilians? Give me some credit… No… this is pretty cool, if I do say so myself, so be quiet and have a little faith.”

Sigrid spread her fingers, hand palm up and Loki could see a bluish something… it almost looked like a liquid… pool in the palm of her hand. She closed her fingers around it and squeezed, then blew gently into her closed fist.

Thor chuckled, amused, “A lot of effort for all this…” looking around them. Nothing.

Loki frowned. Certainly, something had to have gone wrong. Maybe he should… Then in his peripheral vision, he saw Strange, Rogers, Stark – even Ross looking… up. Stopped in their tracks. Loki followed their eyes to see soft lines of bluish white undulating across the night sky, stars twinkling between them.

Sigrid smiled at him, “Not bad, huh?” She pointed up to the lights drifting across the night sky in painterly drifts. “Aurora borealis.”

Stark interrupted, “Caused by gas particles in the atmosphere colliding with charged particles released from the sun's atmosphere. Nitrogen gas makes the blue color.”

Sigrid rolled her eyes, “Not gonna give me this one Tony?”

Tony looked at her fondly, “C’mon, it’s _science_ , Princess. Gonna take more than that” he pointed, “to make me believe you had anything to do with it.”

Loki thought she seemed a little put out, but liked the determined tilt of her chin. And the smirk when she knew how she’d prove to Stark that it was her power creating the lights this time. Loki had no doubt. He’d felt the pull of the world around them as she’d pooled the magic in her palm.

Now Sigrid focused on the sky above, arm stretched above her head, finger outstretched. Rogers elbowed Stark.

“Tony – _look_ … She’s got you.” Rogers grinned at Sigrid, “I understand that reference!”

Looking up again, Loki saw “SURRENDER TONY” spelled out in large red luminous letters across the sky.

Stark looked up and back at Sigrid. “Really? You could’ve written anything and…?”

“I threw in a movie reference about a witch into my magical demonstration. Yes. It’s why you’re marrying Pepper, not me.”

“Well done, Ms. Vinter,” said Strange.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used Icelandic for the Old Tongue since it resembles Old Norse more closely than modern Norwegian. Mistakes are mine (thanks Google...). If you see mistakes in the language - or elsewhere, please let me know and I'll be glad to fix them. :)


	13. November 2017: Hello Darkness My Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...So that was how Tony Stark found himself giving the Winter Soldier a hug because Barnes’ best friend was a well-meaning asshat.
> 
> In which The Soldier asks Tony for help... and Tony has a heart... and is totally a good bro.
> 
> Also, kitties. Because.

> “There are those who merely dabble in withering looks, but Kyogokudo was a widely recognized master of the art. He favored me with one now.”  
>  ― Natsuhiko Kyogoku, _The Summer of the Ubume_

 

Steve was explaining patiently, “Buck, you need to be reasonable about this…. It’s just not practical for everybody to go up there this time of year. Clint’s got his family, Natasha – ”

The Soldier forced himself to respond in English, knowing that Steve expected it. “Natalya already agreed to come. Sam, Stark, and Colonel Rhodes are already here. Wanda and Vision are coming tomorrow and offered to give you a ride.”

“I just don’t understand what’s so important about it,” the line between patient and patronizing tones kept pushing further from one toward the other.

“I need to go. I’ve got another call. Sorry.” The Soldier didn’t understand how Bucky could stand Steve. Though Bucky was better at reading people’s emotions and avoiding their triggers. The Soldier watched for tells, weaknesses that he could capitalize on. Stored the information. Damn, Steve was calling back. Pretending to be Bucky was exhausting.

It ignored the call and removed the battery from the phone. FRIDAY had explained to him not to remove the tracking device Stark put in the phone’s body because it would likely trigger a manhunt. Natalya knew something was wrong with her friend, but if she recognized the Soldier, she hadn’t said anything about it. She didn’t like the Soldier because it shot her.

The Soldier practiced Barnes’ breathing techniques and found them effective for regaining focus. Mission objective: Speak with Stark regarding new arm. Had to be done. Everything else became much more difficult if this objective wasn’t completed. Shoulders squared with determination, the Soldier made its way toward Starks workshop.

Halfway there, the Soldier glimpsed its reflection in a floor-to-ceiling window. _That’s_ what Sam meant when he said ‘murder strut.’ Walking more slowly now. Centering. Letting the aggression slide away from the shoulders. _Better._

When the Soldier arrived outside Stark’s workshop, it expected for FRIDAY to announce its presence to Stark and be authorized or denied entry. It didn’t expect for Stark to be standing in the doorway, waiting. “Wondered when you were gonna show up…” Stark looked the Soldier up and down, “Red October.” _Stark could tell?_

Stark hadn’t stopped talking, though. “Figured you’d be by sometime…” He turned and grinned, “After all, you’re missin’ something RoboCop.” Stark waggled his eyebrows.

The Soldier nodded.

“You know, as it so happens, I’ve been working on a non-military prototype arm that I think will work for you if the data Shuri sent me is anything to go by. Mind if I take a peek?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “Up to you, no pressure. Could also manufacture in other colors… You could branch out a little. They’ve got color film now, you know. Red? Just a suggestion… Also, before I forget, Shuri told me if I saw you… the collective you… to tell you to call her. She worries.”

The Soldier nodded again, acknowledging. That was a call Barnes would have to make, talking to the Soldier made Shuri sad. It could always hear her crying after they spoke.

Stark seemed to be waiting for something. “He will call Shuri.”

FRIDAY said, “I’ll put a note in the Sergeant’s calendar.”

“Spasibo.” _Thank you._

Stark leaned back against one of the work tables and folded his arms, “This a social visit? Need a tune-up? What’s this about Silent Bob?”

The Soldier did not look at Stark, looking instead at a spot just past his shoe. Saying in a low mumble, “Eto pravil'noy raboty nuzhna drugaya ruka.” _This needs another arm to function properly._

“All _right_ then…” Stark ran his fingers through his hair then looked squarely at the Soldier. “Am I gonna regret this WarGames?” He pushed a stool toward the Soldier even as he asked the question, though. “Does… your, uh… other half know you’re here?”

The Soldier looked through the hair falling around its face, “Bolee ili menee.” _More or less._ Stark listened to translation through an earpiece. Probably FRIDAY. It sat on the tall stool Stark provided and removed its shirt.

Stark pulled up diagrams and other notes on the holoscreen in front of them. “Just have to see what Shuri’s trying to describe here.” His eyes flicked to the Soldier, “You’ve gotta tell me if I’m hurting you, ok?”

“Zachem?” _Why?_

Stark stopped and stared, “What do you mean _**why**_? So I don’t hurt –”

“Ne imeyet znacheniya.” _Irrelevant._

Stark stalked away angrily, then turned. “No. It’s _**not**_ fucking irrelevant. If Shuri’s notes are right, then HYDRA basically just jury-rigged everything until it worked.” He rolled his eyes, “Bunch of fucking incompetent Nazi butchers.” Stopping mid-rant, Stark leaned against the table again and sighed, “Listen, this one,” gesturing to the absent arm, “should feel about the same as the other one. Does that one hurt?”

The Soldier shook its head.

“Good. Ok. So the other one doesn’t have to hurt either. It’ll feel a little different ‘cause you weren’t born with it, but it shouldn’t hurt.”

Shuri had said something to similar effect in her lab in Wakanda, but she also hadn’t offered him a new arm. The Soldier had assumed that as nice as she was, she hadn’t wanted to tell him the truth.

The Soldier felt the weight of Stark’s watching eyes. “They conditioned you not to complain about the pain, right?”

Shrugging, “Da.”

“Ok, we’ll do this. If you feel anything – pressure, whatever – lift one finger. If it hurts a little bit, lift two.”

“Kakaya nebol'shaya bol'?” _What’s a little pain?_

Stark looked sad, weighed down. Rubbing his forehead, he said, “A little bit is between uncomfortable and that time Rogers stepped on your foot during drills.” Watching for the Soldier’s nod, then Stark continued, “Three fingers means it hurts more than that, but less than getting shot. More than that, you raise your whole fucking hand. High in the goddamn air, get it?” Stark mumbled to himself and the Soldier, “Just ‘cause you _can_ take the pain doesn’t mean you _have to_.”

The Soldier nodded in agreement.

“I need to hear you say it, Robocop. ‘Yes, I understand.’”

“Ponyal. Ya gotov otvechat.” _Understood. Ready to comply._

Sighing, Stark said, “I don’t want…” To the Soldier, it appeared that Stark was doing breathing exercises similar to Barnes’. “You don’t _have_ to do anything. You don’t need to _comply_. If you want me to hurt you, I will ‘cause you won’t lift a finger. I don’t _want_ to hurt you though. Get it?”

“Nyet, no sdelayu yeto.” _No, but will do it._

“Ok. All right.” Stark nodded. “Well that’s something at least. Shuri’s notes said that she stopped testing because there were things she was sure had to be painful, but you didn’t react. She didn’t want to hurt you either, so she stopped.”

New information. “Ok.”

Stark raised an eyebrow, “Ok?”

“Da. Ok.”

Stark started by taking scans and explaining the results as he compared them to Shuri’s notes and the digital images she’d provided. The Soldier listened attentively. Then Stark began to test the different connection points and possible friction points for pain responses, explaining what he was going to do both before he did something new and while he worked. Explaining not just what he did, but also why it was important.

The Soldier remembered the hand signals and Stark watched for them too. _Welcome, but confusing._ Then a white pain blossomed behind its eyes, blinding. When the Soldier’s eyes opened again, the good hand gripped Starks shoulder tightly, knuckles white. It forced the hand to its side, muttering, “Povtornaja kalibrovka ne trebuetsja.” _Recalibration is not needed._

Stark looked pale, “No. Definitely not – we don’t do that kind of thing here.” Stark rolled his shoulder experimentally and to the Soldier’s eyes, it looked all right – no flinching anyway. Stark muttered throughout his pacing around the lab, “Fucking HYDRA…. Like to recalibrate them where it counts…”

Pulling himself back together, Stark continued in a friendlier tone, speaking to the Soldier again, “If we’re focusing on the positive, now I know why the old arm always hurt. If we’re dwelling on the negative, that must’ve hurt like a sonofabitch. You okay WarGames?”

“Ok.” The Soldier held up three fingers.

Laughing weakly, Stark said, “Less than a gunshot now?”

“Da.”

“Good. Well, I think I’ve got enough for now, so I can work on the connecting bit. Wanna see the mock-up?” Stark showed him a red metal arm.

“Ne krasnyj.” _Not red._

Stark raised an eyebrow, “That a preference I’m detecting, Total Recall?”

“Nyet. Slishkom vydayushchiysya.” _No. Stands out too much._

Skeptical, “Yeah… that’s you. One hundred percent practicality.”

The sarcasm drew a small smile and a chuckle from the Soldier.

Stark paused in what he was doing for a moment, but did not look up, not wanting to cut off the Soldier’s amusement, but he did smile to himself and muttered so the other could hear him, “So lifelike, it’s uncanny, FRI.”

“Whatever you say, Boss.”

Stark handed the Soldier back its shirt and sat on the work bench nearby. “Not that it’s any of my business, but this doesn’t have anything to do with the upcoming arrival of a gorgeous blonde friend of mine, does it?”

“Nyet, jetot dolzhen byt' funkcional'nym.” _This one should be functional._ “Jeto vse.” _That’s all._

“Uh-huh, whatever. Fine.” Stark folded his arms and thought a moment before speaking again. “Can I ask you something? Personal question?”

“Ty mozhete doprosit'.” _You can interrogate._

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Stark looked pained, “You know I’m not interrogating you, right?”

“Zadat' vopros.” _Ask the question._

Evidently Stark’s curiosity won whatever mental struggle he was having, “How come I’m talking with you and not with Barnes?”

Russian accent noticeable, the Soldier replied, “You like Barnes?”

“Don’t know him very well, but he seems all right.”

The Soldier nodded to himself. “And this one?”

Stark stared at a point in space under the Solidier’s stool, quiet so long that the Soldier didn’t think he’d respond. When the man’s eyes focused on its face again, the look of tired sadness mingled with something else… an idea…. “Ok, so you answered my question with two questions, right?”

The Soldier nodded, acknowledging.

“I’m asking another. Any of that therapy” Stark wiggled his fingers like the sign for rain, “trickling down to you?”

Shrugging noncommittally, the Soldier said, “Breathing exercises are beneficial, but what Barnes wants, I disagree with.”

“What’s that?”

“To remember the things I know.”

“Don’t want to be a bad guy here, but you realize you’re using a personal pronoun, right?”

The Soldier glared at Stark, who of all things, laughed.

Stark tried to restrain his grin, but failed. “Sorry, you just had the sullen teenager thing going on there… Anyway, so what does Barnes want that do you disagree with?”

Standing up to pace slowly, “This one protects Yasha from what it did, from what happened to it. Yasha thinks he remembers so much….” Shaking his head, “He is a good man… he doesn’t deserve this thing.”

“ _This_ is you?”

“Da.”

“All right… so going back to my first question, why am I talking to you and not him?”

Pressing hand to the place above its heart, the Soldier closed its eyes, “Because there is one best thing it has that he doesn’t. This will keep all the others....” Paused to think for a moment. “Ty khoroshiy chelovek… eto nepravil'no? Khotet' odnu khoroshuyu veshch'?” _You’re a good man… is it wrong? To want one good thing?_

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

The Soldier didn’t make eye contact with Tony when he asked the question. But the expression on his face…. He’d seen the Soldier in action. Been on the receiving end of some of that action. Had no predisposition to befriend Barnes. But Tony knew what Barnes, the Soldier, endured – at least as much as the files and the incredibly specific records kept by HYDRA. _Fucking Nazis._

 _‘Is it wrong? To want one good thing?’_ The Soldier’s expression, both haunted and resigned held none of the single-minded ferocity Tony’d seen a year or so ago in Berlin. The resignation got to Tony. That the guy thought he was _wrong_ for wanting to have a single good memory – or group of memories.

Tony cleared his throat, “No. I don’t think that’s wrong.” He folded his arms in front of him, leaning back against the work table, “On the other hand, I don’t think it’s wrong for Barnes to want to remember either. Maybe you two can work something out?”

The Soldier shrugged.

Tony had been tinkering with the arm mostly as a practical matter that’d need to be addressed – and as a favor to Sigrid. She thought the guy was worth saving. Worth seventy-ish years of mourning – however long that seemed to her. As well as they got along and as much as they cared for each other, Tony had no doubt where Sigrid’s heart lay.

He offered, “Want to tell me about it?”

“Zachem?” _Why?_

“To…” Tony interrupted himself. “Because it feels good sometimes to share good memories with other people.”

Flatly, “Ty dumayete, eto dolzhno yemu skazat'.” _You think this should tell him._ The Soldier’s face became an expressionless mask again.

“That’s between the two of you… I asked you to tell _me_. It’s your choice – you don’t have to.”

The Soldier hummed acknowledgement, narrowed eyes on Tony. “Mozhet byt' pozzhe.” _Maybe later._ Studying Tony closely, “Pochemu ty pomogayete? Ty nenavidish' menja, pravil'no?” _Why are you helping? You hate me, right?_

Without hesitating, Tony replied, “Because it’ll make Vinter happy.” He sighed, “And I read about what they did to you.” Tony laughed without humor, “Nazis never change, huh? Great recordkeepers.” He shook his head, “Can’t blame you when you didn’t have a choice. Don’t think we’ll ever be besties, though.”

Trying English again, the Soldier pressed, “Do you blame us for attacking you?”

Tony ran his fingers through his hair, what a loaded question. Us. Probably meant the Soldier and Barnes – but it included Steve too. “Still kind of working on it, to be honest. I’m still really angry with Rogers for not telling me – for Siberia... Angry with you for killing my mother. Not gonna deny that.” He sighed, suddenly exhausted, rubbing his forehead, “But I’m trying to understand. To get to something like peace with it again. Find a way to really forgive both of you. Dunno if Rogers told you, but we talked on the trip…. It was… a good start.”

There it was again. The resignation. Beyond despair even. “Steve misses you. Hates this,” tapping himself on the chest.

In spite of himself, his hang-ups, and their history, Stark felt his heart breaking for this part of Barnes. _Christ_ – no wonder Barnes never quite seemed at ease with Steve… all of Rogers’ unintentionally undermining mother-hen bullshit aside. The guy felt at some primal level that Steve would only be his friend if the Soldier wasn’t a part of him.

“Is it all right if I come over there?”

The Soldier shrugged again. The small gesture that showed off both his strength and a subtle edge of menace.

“Need a yes here.”

“Jeto neobhodimo?” _Is it necessary?_

“Do I have to come over there? No. I’d like to, though and I’m asking your permission.”

“Ty strannyj chelovek, Mr. Stark.” _You’re a strange man…_ “Da, Ok.”

Tony bridged the few steps between them. “You look like a guy who could use a hug. I know, I know… I’m mental – you’re not the first to make that observation Sherlock… well you’re a little more hardboiled… Sam Spade maybe?”

And those eyes? He could tell the Soldier was trying to figure out his motivation, what the play was, and how to either brace himself or counter. Tony was ready to retreat quickly from the Soldier’s personal space, when he heard the nearly inaudible, “Da, Ok.” Wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen his lips move too.

So that was how Tony Stark found himself giving the Winter Soldier a hug because Barnes’ best friend was a well-meaning asshat. The Soldier didn’t move. Didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. Finishing off the quick hug with a kind of bro back-pat, Tony said, “Rogers… well, he’s kind of an asshat sometimes. I’m sure he’d give you sad puppy eyes if he knew he was hurting your feelings.” Tony put on fake Steve Rogers Sad Eyes and blinked woefully.

If Tony didn’t know better, he’d think the Soldier might be trying not to laugh. Then, regaining his composure, he said, “The Continental Op.”

“The who? Oh yeah, Dashiell Hammett’s other detective.”

“Bez imeni.” _No name._

“Clever too.” A thought occurred to Tony, “FRI, am I still supposed to go to that thing this afternoon?”

“In thirty minutes, Boss.”

“Plenty of time…” Stark’s eyes flicked back to the Soldier. “You and I have a date WarGames – if you wanna get outta this place for a bit.”

“Chto?” _What?_

“It’s… a… well… You know how Barnes is prepping for the whole cooking lessons thing that’s starting Saturday?”

“Odinnadtsatyy. Da.” _The eleventh. Yes._

“Well, our little date is occupational therapy too. It’ll be fun.” Stark’s face fell, “You could look a tad more interested… Well, you’ll be able to protect me from fierce beasts and we can talk on the way.”

“Beasts?”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Stark spent most of the car ride over to wherever they were going on the phone. The Soldier looked out the window, counting the intersections, committing turns to memory. The Soldier had tuned out when Stark, sounding irritated, said, “No, I’m not bringing you Captain America….”

They arrived about fifteen minutes later in front of a low cinderblock building painted brown. Exiting the vehicle, all the Soldier could hear was the barking of dogs… dozens of them. Feet rooted in place, tension made its body taut.

Stark walked around the car, “You with me, RoboCop?”

For a moment, the Soldier’s eyes saw the last time it had heard so many dogs barking. Barking, snarling as they’d taken down their target. Then Stark locked the car with a loud beep, which brought the mechanic into focus and the world back to the present.

“Flashback?”

“Da.”

“You good?”

The Soldier nodded.

Stark pointed to the sign on the front of the building, ‘Humane Society Animal Shelter.’ “They’re doing a fundraiser calendar to raise money for the shelter and for local veterans’ support programs. You’re much better for it than I am.”

The Soldier gave Stark a dark look, but accompanied the other man into the building.

An outdoorsy woman with reddish brown hair walked up to talk to Stark. The Soldier evaluated the other occupants of the office area. Two men using wheelchairs, another missing a leg. A woman with both a prosthetic arm and a leg. Another man sat next to a woman – he appeared to have had some kind of traumatic brain injury and she was his handler – no… caregiver.

Maybe… _maybe what?_ Uncertainty. Not hope exactly… but the sense of possibilities… felt good. Felt good not to be the only broken one.

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Tony watched Barnes, well, the Soldier anyway stand awkwardly against the wall. Two of the other vets had started whispering to each other and the Soldier looked like he wanted to fold in on himself. _You and your fuckin’ ideas Stark…_

One of the vets rolled up to Barnes, “You Sergeant Barnes from the Howling Commandos?”

God, Stark… of all the… you should’ve called Kaplan first…. Made arrangements to meet the animals somewhere quieter. Someplace private. Test the waters… Damn, damn, damn.

Stark heard the Soldier’s deliberate words, “Kind of.”

The veteran in front of Barnes stuck out his hand, “Nick Case. Welcome back Sarge. Took ‘em long enough to bring you home.”

The Soldier shook the man’s hand, “Thanks.”

“Hey, listen. If you’re interested, we’ve got a wounded vets group up here. Don’t go for all that ‘disabled’ crap, myself… We all left somethin’ behind back there, you know? Doesn’t matter if you can see it or not… Anyway, we meet Thursday nights over at Crossroads, dive bar, ‘bout 5 miles from here. Not therapy – not that that’s not valuable too... Just a buncha vets that get together. Social thing. Shoot pool, have a couple of beers… Love to have you if you’re interested.”

Stark watched the interaction, watched the Soldier’s face examine the other man. The Soldier’s lips twitched with indecision for a moment, then bit the inside of his lip, “Ok. Avos'.” [ _Maybe._ ] Muttered, “Shit. Izvinite.” [ _Sorry._ ] He rubbed the flat of his knuckles hard over his forehead.

Tony frowned, unable to tell for sure if the Soldier showing this much emotion was a good thing or not. Before he could act, though, the woman, Corporal Claire Harrison, glared at Case, one of the vets using a wheelchair and said, “Jesus, Nick – lay off. You’re givin’ the guy an attack.” To Barnes, she said, “Sorry, Case is _very_ gung-ho with the welcome wagon.” Glaring again at Case, who looked tempted to open his mouth again, “Back the fuck off, Case. Let the guy breathe.”

“Spasibo.” Thank you.

Corporal Harrison replied, “Pozhaluysta.” _You’re welcome._ Then grinned when Barnes looked surprised, “Don’t get excited, that’s all I’ve got – yes, no, please, and thank you.”

Debbie, the Humane Society volunteer who’d set this all up returned to the room and looked at the group of seated veterans, “Your photos are loading now so we’ll be able to look in a minute. Sergeant Barnes? We’ve got the introduction room ready for you.” The woman gestured pleasantly. Tony nodded his encouragement.

Barnes walked warily to the room indicated and peered through the glass. “Kotyata?” The same press of the knuckles to his forehead, “Um… Kittens?” He sounded more unsure if the word was right. “I can’t. Oni slishkom maly. Ja sdelaju im bol'no.” _They’re too small. I’ll hurt them._

But Debbie, _bless her heart_ , was pouring kitten treats into the Soldier’s hand and propelled him gently, but firmly into the room with a few cat trees and fur mouse toys stuffed with catnip.

Almost before the door closed, a white and grey kitten with darker grey tabby stripes on its sides pounced and then scaled Barnes to sit on his shoulder, peeping into his face. The shock on Barnes’ face gave way to a tentative pleasure. Okay, seeing _the Winter fucking Soldier_ boop a sassy kitten on the nose hadn’t been on Tony Stark’s bucket list, but that version of the list had apparently been incomplete.

Barnes held himself like the Soldier, body tense, shoulders curled in a shy slouch. Then Tony made out what Barnes was saying to the gray and white kitten. All in Russian, but sounding like the Bucky Barnes he’d met before.

 _“No, I’m not giving you more, bossy.”_ The kitten put a paw on his cheek.

 _“Forget it, punk. You gotta wait your turn.”_ Barnes raised an eyebrow, _“Cryin’ about it isn’t gonna help.”_

A fluffy tabby kitten with a white chest and socks rubbed her side against Barnes’ leg and then wound herself between them. Barnes sat down on the floor. _“Hi pretty girl, you remind me of Little Mouse.”_ Gave her a treat and looked at the grey and white kitten still perched on his shoulder who mewed at him. _“Still ain’t your turn, pal.”_

Two brown tabby kittens fought over a catnip mouse. Both had grouchy expressions, but that was probably just the shape of the stripes over their eyes. When they smelled Barnes had treats, the two attacked his hand together and each other to get the treats inside. After treats, they abandoned the catnip mouse in favor of his boot laces. Belatedly, Stark realized one of these two tabby kittens only had three legs.

 _“Don’t bite your brother, Weirdo. He’ll beat you up. See? What did I tell ya?”_ The kitten with three legs climbed into the crook of Barnes’ arm, apparently annoyed with his brother (and licking his paw to show he didn’t care). _“Here’s another treat Weirdo. Next time not so rough.”_

_“Fine Old Man, you can have another too. Quit beggin’.”_

With FRIDAY translating in his earpiece, Stark hadn’t quite realized that Barnes was naming the kittens until a black and white tuxedo kitten with a black chin and moustache sauntered over to sprawl in Barnes’ lap and was called _“Piece of Iron.”_ Tony had to admit, if he had a feline look-alike, this cat was it.

Shit. _Barnes gave them all names._ Well, there goes a pet-free Avengers compound. Tony Stark was not going to be the guy who told the Winter Soldier he couldn’t keep a pet (or five). Pets help reduce stress, right? Everybody at the Compound had stress. A favor for the team. Not because seeing Barnes with an armful of kittens was really fucking adorable. _Nope._

Well, if these photos don’t make mega-bucks for the animal shelter, nothing will. Putting a little extra in the donation box won’t hurt, though either. _So worth it._


	14. November 2017: At the Compound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like discovering the super-soldier HYDRA assassin part of you had his own plans and stuff…. _Should’ve seen it coming Barnes._ Getting rid of the triggers was too easy. (It hadn’t been. At all.) At least they (should he even be referring to himself as ‘they?’) got their own room at the Avengers Compound and didn’t have to share with Steve anymore.
> 
> In which the kittens are admired, videos watched, and fond reminiscing.

> “-There was something in her, something that was...pure horror. Everything you were supposed to watch out for. Heights, fire, shards of glass, snakes. Everything that his mom tried so hard to keep him safe from.”  
>  ― John Ajvide Lindqvist, Let the Right One In

 

“Stark let you adopt all of them?” Natasha sounded skeptical.

“Yeah, was his idea.”

Natalya smiled and danced her fingers in front of the mustachioed black and white kitten. “Do they all have names?”

“Yeah, that one’s Zhelezka.” _Piece of iron._

“Tony said you had one named Weirdo?” Natasha raised an eyebrow.

Bucky pulled the kitten with three legs into his lap. “This is Chudak.” _Weirdo._

“All their names are Russian?”

“Yeah, Steve hates it. ‘Why can’t you call them like Fluffy or something? It’s just not you, Buck.’” Barnes’ anger simmered under the surface thinking about that disappointed face. The grey and white kitten jumped over the back of the couch and to sit on Bucky’s shoulder. “Man, just be glad we don’t have a cat for every time I’ve heard him say some shit like that.”

The grey kitten batted at Bucky’s mouth, “If you tell me to watch my language again, Starikashka, I swear, I’m not givin’ you anymore treats.” _Little Old Man._

Natalya looked up at him, expression softening, “Did you…? You named them after us?”

He laughed, “Kinda. It’s this one’s fault. Reminds me of Steve. Always lookin’ over my shoulder, nose in my business. Givin’ me lectures.”

The furry pet in question let out an indignant, “Mrowr.”

“You do too, Bossy Boots. Don’t chew on my hair, idiot, it makes you puke.” The cat paused for a moment, ignored him and went back to chewing on Bucky’s hair. Bucky rolled his eyes, muttering, “Idiot cat… doesn’t listen…” He gave a meaningful look to Natalya.

Laughing, she said, “Sounds nothing at all like the Steve Rogers I know. As far as I know, he doesn’t like to chew on hair,” the hint of a teasing smile on her lips, “Unless you know something I don’t…” Settling into the couch to play with the Zhelezka, the black and white kitten, “I heard a rumor that Stark is building you a new arm?”

“Yeah, he and Princess Shuri are working on something…”

“Is everything ok?” Nat rubbed Zhelezka’s ears and kitten relaxed and began to purr. Natasha glanced up at Bucky. “You just seem a little more… _determined_ lately.”

Bucky shrugged noncommittally, “I’m all right – you know as much as I ever am.”

Natasha smiled fondly at the kitten draped over her thigh, “I just wondered if it had anything to do with all those calls and texts from Norway…?”

He tried to be affronted, “You too?”

“Hey, Sigrid’s a nice girl. Likes to have a good time too.” She paused, “Ever seen her in a fight?”

“Yeah… saw that fight she got into with the guys in the garage. Less than 2 minutes an’ only because she wasn’t tryin’ to hurt ‘em.”

“Oh! I missed that one!” Natasha sounded excited, “Steve mentioned something about it, though… FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Ms. Romanov?”

“Can you pull up the video Barnes is referring to? Then I want to compare it with my body cam footage highlights from January 2012.”

“No problem. Shall I wait a moment for you to prepare popcorn?”

Natalya gestured to the dozing ball of fuzz on her leg and shrugged. Bucky got up, grumbling and pretended to be annoyed. As the popcorn popped in the microwave, he thought to himself, _**‘Can we do this together, pal? I can feel you in there. Appreciate you’ve been sharing more of the rough stuff.’**_ He didn’t expect – and didn’t receive a response. Nothing like discovering the super-soldier HYDRA assassin part of you had his own plans and stuff…. _Should’ve seen it coming Barnes._ Getting rid of the triggers was too easy. (It hadn’t been. At all.) At least they (should he even be referring to himself as ‘they?’) got their own room at the Avengers Compound and didn’t have to share with Steve anymore.

He brought back the popcorn and a couple of beers. FRIDAY started the video footage. Bucky’d been good. _Totally the opposite of stalkerish._ Even if all his training screamed at him to find out all he could about Sigrid. Hadn’t watched the garage video since that time he’d watched it three times in a row. Now he tried not to sigh with admiration as she swung the mechanic’s creeper both as a weapon and as a shield. Knew how to throw a punch too, but his earlier assessment was right – she was totally holding back.

“Shall I start the highlight reel from Philadelphia?” FRIDAY asked. She knew about Bucky’s crush on Sigrid. Were the two women in his life (he didn’t see much of Wanda) conspiring?

Bucky asked, “She’s holdin’ back right?”

“Oh, Yashenka… you don’t even know…” She smiled, eyebrow quirked. “This is from the mission where Clint and I met Sigrid for the first time.”

Bucky watched from roughly Natalya’s point of view as Clint leaned his arm out the window on the passenger side of an Audi with black leather interior. He was shaking a paper coffee cup that rattled with change, “We’re collectin’ for the poor motherfuckers in Philly.”

He could see a figure outside, in black, but recognized the voice immediately as Sigrid’s. Amused, “Might be able to contribute. Sounds like a worthy cause.” She got into the back of the car.

The car moved forward, and Bucky couldn’t see Sigrid in the video anymore, but he could hear Clint saying, “All right, you’re up Agent Coulson.”

Coulson began, “Welcome V, we’ve heard about the jobs you’ve taken at St. Margaret’s. To be blunt, we’d like you to continue, but working with us – not as a vigilante.” _Wait…_ Bucky knew V. Knew of her anyway. To HYDRA grunts, she was a ghost story. They called her Snegurochka, _Snow Maiden_.

“Corporate saboteur,” Sigrid corrected.

Bucky tuned out Coulson’s SHIELD infomercial to daydream about Sigrid’s voice. Hopefully he didn’t look too sappy.

He tuned back in when he heard Clint say with some alarm, “You told us to expect at least a hundred armed hostiles!”

Sounding semi-bored, Sigrid asked, “Any enhanced?”

Coulson’s deadpan, “Unknown.”

“Um… ‘modified’ weapons?” Sigrid asked hesitantly.

“Likely. Modifications unknown.”

“So, to summarize – you want a show? And for your agents not to get vaporized.”

“Ideally, yes.”

“Gotcha.”

Some more chatter as Coulson ended the call. Natasha’s body cam picked up the peripheral motion of Clint turning around to look back at Sigrid, “Vaporized?” Not panicked, but definitely _concerned_.

Bucky recognized Sigrid’s amused sarcastic, “Volkóv boját'sja – v les ne hodít'.” _If you can’t take the heat, stay out of the kitchen._

Natalya translated literally for Barton, sounding very entertained, “If you're afraid of wolves, don't go to the woods.”

Clint turned around to face the road again, “Not _afraid_ … just…. _Vaporized?_ Really?”

Sigrid hummed an affirmative, adding, “Poof!”

At that Clint swore a lot and Natalya tried her best to tone down the entertained note in her voice. Then the footage cut to the inside of a Quinjet and the three making their brief plans. Sigrid wearing a hoodie under a leather jacket, reinforced Kevlar motorcycle pants. While he admired the practicality of the pants, he questioned the hood. Personally, he preferred not to give an opponent something extra to hold onto. The next thing Bucky knew, Sigrid was jumping out of the plane.

Clint asked Natalya, “Did she just jump without a parachute?”

“Yes, she did.” The camera picked up the figure in black streaking away from the plane, using her body to maneuver like a rudder until she crashed through a glass skylight in what looked like a decommissioned power plant. _You should really not be turned on right now, you fucking freak._

The footage cut again, picking up presumably inside the power plant. Natalya’s position behind some huge piece of rusting metal. The camera showed Sigrid with some kind of… armor over her clothes.

Barton sat down on the arm of the couch next to Natalya, “Wow… this brings back memories.”

Bucky was startled that neither he nor the Soldier had noticed Clint enter the room, but he filed that away to think about later.

Clint stepped over the middle of the couch to sit between Natalya and Bucky. Closer to the popcorn. “Has she started kickin’ ass yet?” Natalya shook her head and Barton turned to Bucky with something like pride in his voice, “Mows through ‘em like _butter_!”

Natalya hit Clint and hissed, “Shh! It’s getting to the good part.”

The tinny voice over the loudspeakers didn’t come through very well, it sounded like some HYDRA ass-wipe trying to imitate Zola. Sigrid’s laugh rang out through the ruined industrial building and Bucky noticed the nervous shuffle of soldiers when confronted with the unexpected. “Nice sort of _Star Wars_ thing you’ve got goin’ on. ‘Come to the Dark Side…’ But see? I already _know_ the cake is a lie. There’s no cookies either.”

She stood, confident on whatever hunk of rusting metal that was like an avenging angel. No… searching for a better comparison…. Like the Celtic warrior queen, Boadicea… or the Greek goddess Athena, maybe. Clint fidgeted in his seat, clearly eager for the next bit. And then Sigrid quoted Jules Winnfield from _Pulp Fiction_ , Clint mouthing the words along with her,

> “Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children.  
>  And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy My brothers. And you will know I am the Lord when I lay My vengeance upon you.”

One of the bolder (probably stupider) soldiers heckled, “Sayin’ yer God?”

Even from the distance Natalya had stood from Sigrid, Bucky could still make out her wicked smile in the camera’s footage. Hear her reply, “No, I’m Vengeance.” A staff nearly eight feet long formed in her hand. “And this is Furious Anger.”

The next couple minutes were a blur of action, ice, and HYDRA goons dropping like flies. Bucky had the feeling he might be the super-soldier embodiment of the heart-eyed emoji right now. Hopefully Clint and Natalya were paying more attention to the video than to his reaction. At least he wasn’t _actually_ drooling. He checked.

The center of his chest began to tingle, just below his collar bone, and Barnes rubbed the place absently. On the screen, guys with flamethrowers showed up – and Sigrid just looked pissed off about it.

Ice… magic. Bucky smiled to himself remembering his conversation with her about ‘shooting lightning out of her whatever.’ Dimly, he recalled being somewhere dark, but cozy. He wasn’t supposed to be there. _They_ weren’t supposed to be there. Kisses with a bite of frost. Thinking of them now, hazy as it was, still sent a thrill down his spine, feeling like all the nerves in his body had come to life at once, some kind of sensual short-circuit.

The pictures moved on the screen, but Barnes didn’t see them anymore. He remembered saying, “How d’you do that?”

She’d laughed and kissed him again with that freezing bite, “That?”

He couldn’t see her, but her hair smelled like lavender. He could feel her smile against his bare chest, where she’d nestled against him. He hummed a lazy affirmation, “Yeah.”

“Magic.”

He trailed his fingers up and down her forearm lazily as she traced circles on his chest idly. “You do anything else or just those kisses I like?” Some part of his brain telling him that he’d lose her. Didn’t deserve her. Too wonderful. _Loved her too much._

She propped herself up on her elbow, “Testing me?”

Bucky pulled her up, so they were nose-to-nose and cupped her cheek, brushed his lips over hers and said in a low voice, “Nah, got all the proof I need right here,” giving her a squeeze.

Couldn’t see her smile, but she kissed him and bit his lip, gradually increasing the pressure until it hurt and then not letting go until she’d drawn a low moan from him. _Always the teeth with that one…._ Not that you’d catch him complaining – he liked it as much as she did.

Pulling away, she sat up and straddled him. _Promising…._ But the next thing he felt was her finger tracing a series of patterns across his chest, just under his collar bone. Eyes open, he could see a very faint glow, “Whatchya doin’?”

“Writing. All done.” She laid down next to him again, pulling the blanket up around them.

“What’s it say?”

“Fragile. Handle With Care.”

“Ha ha.” He tangled his fingers in her hair, “You put a spell on me or something?”

“You peeked.” Bucky could hear the pout in her voice, but she wasn’t serious.

“It tickled, so yeah, I peeked. What’s it say?”

“It’s kind of hard to translate, but it means something like, ‘the cold is my shield.’”

“Something like? C’mon… you know what you wrote.” He tickled her side a little bit, “Is it embarrassing? _‘Réservé à Sophie?’_ ”

She giggled, “It is… kind of… Just sounds so… old-timey…”

“Spill.”

“It says, ‘Winter’s lover need never fear the cold.’” She buried her face in his shoulder, embarrassed.

The memory started to fade. Could hear the rumble of his voice, but not what he’d said to her. Still felt the tingle of the words she’d written across his chest, though. _Shit. How long had he spaced out for?_

Apparently, Clint and Natalya had started reminiscing over some of their other missions because the dilapidated power plant had been replaced with the exterior of a flat-topped pyramid in the middle of a flat grassy plain.

Bucky heard Clint say, “See Tash, I remember. First time Cap went out with the three of us.”

Natalya sighed with pleasure, “Nekoma, North Dakota. You know how to thrill a girl, Barton.” To which Clint chuckled. The brown tabby kitten Bucky had named Ptashka, _Birdie_ , snuggled up with Barton. Bucky had named it after Sam because of all the serious stink-eye it always gave him.

Natalya asked Bucky, “Who’s this?”

“Ptashka.” The kitten gave him another baleful glare.

When she raised an eyebrow he said, “‘Cause Sam and I fight and he’s always givin’ me _looks_ , you know?”

Just then, Steve entered the kitchen behind them, “Hey, what are you guys watch– Oh… No. Not that. Buck – you shouldn’t be watching that kind of thing. Could be triggering.”

Under his breath, Bucky said, “Only thing gonna be triggered here is the can of whoop-ass I been savin’ for you, pal.”

Clint snickered, and Natalya did her best not too look as entertained as she felt.

“What was that? Got a bunch of static from one of the speakers over here by the fridge.”

Bucky gave FRIDAY’s nearest camera a wink. _Totally_ BFFs. “Nothin’.”

Steve used his ‘don’t argue with me, I’m the Captain,’ tone, “FRIDAY, please turn on something else that Bucky’ll like.”

The lights on one of the cameras flickered. Morse code? FRIDAY’s message, “Got this.”

Dark blue water filled the screen, moonlight glinting off the waves and a girl steering a boat over the gentle waves. _What the hell was this?_ Now the girl with the big eyes was walking through a village in where? Greece? Mailing letters. Not encouraging. _What’re you doing FRIDAY?_

Barton and Natalya glanced between themselves. Apparently, they hadn’t seen this one either. Barton muttered, “That ABBA?” _Mamma Mia_ 's title screen splashed before their eyes and early twenty-somethings burst into song. Clint mumbled, “Aaaand that’s an affirmative….”

Steve’s voice from behind them, sounded confused, “Uh… Buck?”

Bucky slowly turned to look over his shoulder, “Problem?”

Steve opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, clearly at a loss for words, then turned around to finish making his post-workout snack. _Was it **really** a win though?_ Rogers did not join them on the couch, choosing to sit on the kitchen island instead. But Natalya and Barton did not abandon Bucky to his fate and the siren song of Swedish disco music.

Almost thirty minutes into the movie as the characters started singing the title track of the movie, Tony Stark walked in for a coffee refill, humming to himself, and then singing along (slightly flat) to himself, “Just one look and I can hear a bell ring, one more look and I forget everything o-o-oh.” Stark stopped abruptly before the chorus started and glared into the conversation pit toward the TV screen. “What. Is. _That?_ ”

Bucky replied, “Domashneye zadaniye.” _Homework._

Stark sighed and poured his coffee, “Not sure if I admire the lengths you’re willing to go or pity you for making a bad life choice here. You know I didn’t know _any_ ABBA songs – _none_ – until Elsa got me in her clutches? They’re so _catchy_ … they just kind of embed themselves in your brain, you know?” Stark turned toward Barnes, Barton, and Natalya. “Sorry. Bad word choice… but… not wrong. C’mon, somebody back me up here. N-Ro?”

Natalya shrugged, “I kind of like it. It’s good scrapbooking music.”

“Setting aside the issues of what the Black Widow scrapbooks about, that you have time for it, and probably have glue dots and scissors with zigzag edges…” Tony sighed, defeated. “Legolas?”

Clint shook his head slowly, “Hate to say this, but I have to go with Stark on this one.”

“Thanks Clint, appreciate the reluctant backup. Anyway, from what I hear, Vinter’s coming back on the fifteenth. Maybe we can postpone the inevitable” Stark waved his hand at the screen, “until Thanksgiving? Take a vote on the least horrible musical of the last century?”

Steve frowned, “She’s missing our first team-building session this weekend?”

Stark gave Steve an annoyed glance, “ _Seriously?_ That’s your takeaway? I’m talking about protecting a way of life, here Cap. But yeah, that’s right.”

“Thor didn’t say anything about it when I talked to him earlier…. Who’d you talk to?”

“The mechanic she’s helping – Rocket? Said they’re just about finished with the essential repairs to the space ship the Asgardians arrived on.” To everyone else, he said, “Apparently _not_ an Asgardian ship. Neat, huh?” Stark threw a look to Bucky and said, “Rocket’s a raccoon.”

_A raccoon?_

Tony wrapped his fingers around his coffee cup, sipped and then stared into the dark contents of his mug. He shook his head, momentarily lost in thought.

Bucky decided coffee wasn’t a bad idea. Then he could observe more closely. Possibly participate in the conversation. Leaps and bounds of progress there…

As Bucky poured his coffee, he heard Steve mutter, “Foul-mouthed, drunk raccoon…”

Looking between Steve and Stark, Bucky tried to make up his mind about whether or not they were joking about the alien mechanic being a talking, swearing, drunken raccoon from outer space. He added the sugar to his coffee, watching the white crystals cascade into the extra-large mug.

“Um…” Stark watched the sugar fall into Bucky’s mug. “Need milk or something… maybe some coffee with that sugar?”

Enough sugar now. “Nope. It’s fine.”

Stark wrinkled his nose as Bucky sipped experimentally. _Just right._ Bucky sighed happily. Stevie never let him put enough sugar in. _Let him? What the fuck was that about?_ They were both super-soldiers with metabolisms to match. The grey kitten on his shoulder poked his nose into the cup. “Not for you, idiot,” then gave it a kiss on its fuzzy cheek.

Steve got that look that said the lecture on pet hygiene was coming.

Bucky decided to cut him off, “Before ya say anything… I know where _you’ve_ been and we’re still friends, so keep yer yap shut, Old Man.”

Tony’s phone buzzed and FRIDAY put the call on the holoscreen over the kitchen island, “Hey you! How’s my favorite IKEA Top Model?”

Sigrid laughed, “Fine. Heard you talked to Rocket this afternoon?”

Tony smiled, “Uh.. yeah. That a crime now? Rogers is pissed at me too. But a good chunk of your fan club is here tonight.”

Bucky waved, “Ey milashka. Ya ever comin’ home?” _Hey cutie…_

“Privet, krasavchik - ty po mne skuchaesh'?” _Hi handsome – miss me?_ “If I’d known you were gonna be around, I would’ve cleaned up.” Sigrid winked.

“Hey! What about me?” Tony complained.

Sigrid pointed at him, “You’re practically hitched to Pepper and I don’t want a date with a shallow grave…. Kidding James. Speaking of being good in a fight… I think Steve’s grouchy because somebody lost a bet. Totally kicked Quill’s ass.”

“Knew you had it in ya, Death Proof!”

Clint and Natalya came around to say hi and ask about the fight.

Steve protested that the fight must’ve at least been close.

Rocket popped into the frame, laughing, slapping Sigrid’s shoulder, “Nah – hahaha! She took out half of his jet pack and the idiot crashed into the wall. HA!” A woman with green skin standing in the background nodded grimly. The raccoon high-fived Sigrid. “Sendin’ back your winnings with the blonde, Stark.”

Steve sighed heavily. Bucky was sure he was going to make some other jerk comment, but instead Steve said, “Well, there goes my pension… Thanks a lot, Vinter,” sounding more like the snarky kid from Brooklyn than he had… well, since before Steve had showed up in his apartment in Romania.

Bucky seized the moment and threw his arm around his friend, “Stevie? That really you? Thought I was gonna be stuck with the Captain the rest of my life!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughh... I know.... I know.... quotations are so cheesy.... I just couldn't help it. I am entirely to blame. It's by sheer willpower alone that this isn't 100% musical theater, movie quotes and etc... So anyway, I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. Pleeeeease don't hate me. 
> 
> I love _youuuu_??  <3 Anyway, I hope you guys like this chapter and notice?? I finally have a final chapter count!!!! YAY! We're almost there!


	15. November 2017:  Fish and Feasting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last. Finally. The crew cooks! :D

> “The Doctor: 'You know when grown-ups tell you everything's going to be fine, but you really think they're lying to make you feel better?'  
>  Amelia: 'Yeah...'  
>  The Doctor: 'Everything's going to be fine.”  
>  ― Steven Moffat

 

Sigrid stared at the counter full of ingredients. She could do this. Her culinary repertoire was pitifully small. She could make a couple kinds of cheese, a good baguette, and gingerbread cookies – these the product of growing up in central Europe and Scandinavia. Beyond that? Very little that turned out reliably well. Still, she wanted to make an effort since the rest of the team would be spending a good chunk of Saturday cooking. (Also, she might be trying to placate Steve – just a little bit. Team events meant a lot to him.)

Taking a deep breath, Sig started peeling carrots and parsnips. She’d eaten this soup hundreds of times. She could do this. She diced onions, celery and minced garlic. What else was there? Oh yeah… leeks and peppers. After these were chopped, Sigrid melted butter in the large pot she’d been able to find in one of the kitchens. Assuming this turned out well, there’d be enough to feed… well according to her recipe, eight people.

After the butter melted, she added the aromatics, salt and pepper, and let them cook while she finished peeling and chopping the potatoes and celeriac, chopping the carrots and parsnips too. Okay. So far so good. Wait… no… the onions were starting to burn... Shit.

Sigrid stirred the onions, leek, and celery mixture and dumped in the crunchier vegetables. The guys didn’t call it ‘burned’ on TV – they said they’d given the onions a bit of color…. What now? _Right._ Add the liquids. Three cups of fish stock? This container has four. _What does one do with one cup of leftover fish stock?_ Sigrid dumped that in too with the milk and Worcestershire sauce, which always smelled gross to her, but tasted good.

‘Reduce heat to medium.’ Well _shit_ … she just had it turned on to the middle of the dial because she hadn’t been sure how hot the burners really got. Damn. Should she reduce it anyway – or was she good now? When did the parsley come in? This was a fish stew. _Why was there no fish on her counter of ingredients?!_ What the fuck happened to it? She _did_ buy it… right?

Goddammit. Sig looked in the refrigerator to make sure she hadn’t put it in there by mistake. Nope. How long were these vegetables supposed to cook? Twenty-five minutes, which had started… how long ago? Damn, damn, _damn_! Well, probably twenty minutes ago. Or so.

Hmmm… no parsley until after the fish cooks through. _Oops._ The juice of one lemon? Did they add that to the internet after she made her grocery list? Motherfucker. Soooo much easier just to buy a bowl of fucking soup.

All right… well, she’d have to go back to the store and get the fish after the vegetables finished cooking. But then what? Put it in the fridge? Jaime Oliver said not to put hot things in the fridge because it fucked things up. This wasn’t usually a problem since she only ever had take-away containers to add to her fridge. Or cheese…. Beer…? Stuff like that.

But… if she couldn’t the hot pan in the fridge – was it safe to leave on the stove? You weren’t supposed to leave food sitting out either. Was the 30-40 minutes it was going to take to go back to the store, buy the fish for the damn fish stew _(And the lemon. **Really.** Where the fuck had that come from?!)_ going to make the food go bad? She didn’t think so… but she was the kind of person who apparently forgets to buy _**fish**_ for the fucking fish stew!

Then the thought struck her: _‘should I have been stirring this whole time?’_ As Sigrid stirred, she sincerely hoped that James and everyone else at home would have an easier time of the whole mastering the culinary arts. Maybe she could just chop everything and get someone else to shop and cook. A restaurant sounded even better. It was the cook’s _job_ to make tasty food. The baker’s _job_ to make delicious bread and pastries. Division of labor made modern society and the global economy possible. Who was she to deny someone their _profession_? Their _livelihood_?

To be fair to the team, Sigrid recorded a short video of herself and the aftermath of her vegetable prep… and her tasty, but fish-less fish stew. She sent it to FRIDAY with the message, “Hope the team enjoys this at my expense and I’ll see everyone in a few days.”

 

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

Of the assembled Avengers, Sam Wilson had the most successful experiences in the kitchen, so he had been selected to find kitchen coaches for the team. He said he’d chosen the best three cooks he knew. When the eleventh rolled around, they discovered the three cooks were Sam’s mom and two aunties.

As everyone else talked about the things they planned to make – or learn to make, James felt less and less confident in his choice. Clint was planning to make flank steak with a bloody mary style tomato salad. Natasha was prepping a fingerling potato salad with leeks and a mustard vinaigrette. Clearly the two former SHIELD agents had been conspiring with their selections. Then Director Coulson announced he’d be baking a vanilla cake with malted chocolate frosting.

Wanda chose to make a roasted beet salad with shaved fennel and toasted walnuts. Steve was planning to try his hand at homemade macaroni and cheese – with four kinds of cheese and panko breadcrumbs on top. Colonel Rhodes was making two appetizers: stuffed mushrooms and little crostini with dilled cream cheese and curls of smoked salmon and cucumber. Tony was making the vegetarian main – Anna Jarvis’ lasagna. Sam had signed up for slow-cooked glazed carrots. Figured he’d bring something healthy. Banner was tying everything together with an appetizer/light dessert – baked brie with pecans and maple syrup.

Leaning on the counter, James saw that everyone else had planned an elaborate menu and everything kind of went together. There was a chart with cooking times and everything. That looked like Steve’s work. Had they told him about it and he forgot? Had they told him while the Soldier was in control? _Did they not tell him at all?_

He’d been practicing, reading recipes, and watching cooking shows to try to pick up some skills so he didn’t look like an idiot in front of… well pretty much everyone he knew. Suddenly, the ham and vegetable pie he’d planned and tested didn’t seem so great. It reminded him of something his mother might’ve made to use up leftovers. James didn’t have distinct memories of his mother cooking, but the warm feeling – the impression of love – that the idea of making something she’d have made or something she’d approve of made him feel good. That is until now, when it seemed so… ordinary… when everyone else was making something really special.

Watching the others buzz around the kitchen, busy with prep and watching the clock, James eyed his thawed frozen broccoli that was draining in a large glass bowl. He’d cut up the ham last night, so that was ready to go. James retrieved the block of cheddar and began to shred the cheese. He’d decided that if he used everything pre-prepared, that it wouldn’t count – at least in the eyes of his friends.

Mrs. Wilson stopped by and watched for a moment. “I don’t know if we’ve met, son, but I’m Linda Wilson, Sam’s mother.”

“Ma’am. Hi… – James Barnes.” Cheese started to fill the grater and he shook it out so it didn’t get too packed down inside (mistake he’d made the first time he’d tried this recipe).

“Didn’t see your name on the list, son. Tell me what you’re up to over here, lookin’ so serious.”

“I don’t remember if they told me about it or not. I… just picked something… that reminded me of home… I guess.”

Mrs. Wilson looked at him with interest, eyebrows raised, ready for him to continue.

James took a breath and glanced up at her, “It’s a ham and vegetable pie with cheese.”

“With crust or more like a biscuit topping?”

He shrugged, “It kind of makes its own crust, actually. I… wasn’t sure it’d turn out right if I tried a regular crust, but that’s how my ma woulda made it.” He looked at the cheese, “An’ she wouldn’t have used cheese.” James shrugged again.

Mrs. Wilson nodded and smiled. “Haven’t made one of those in a long time. My mama used to call them impossible pies.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially, “I see you watching them – thinking your pies aren’t gonna compare. I tell you what – you’ll be done – and they’ll be eating that pie for lunch while we wait on the rest of them to finish up the rest for dinner.”

Linda Wilson’s presence had drawn the attention of her sisters, who also came to supervise. Mrs. Wilson introduced them, “James, this is my big sister Donna and little sister, Becky.”

“Nice to meet you ma’am. Ma’am.” He smiled, shaking hands, “My sister’s name was Becky.” Aunt Becky preened good-naturedly.

“So polite! What can I help with, honey?” One auntie elbowed the other and said, “Green salad,” while the other said, “Cornbread,” at the same time.

“Anything you need from me, son?” Mrs. Wilson asked James.

He started to shake his head, but then remembered, “Haven’t been able to get the pan greased right… either too much or not enough. Can you show me how to do that?”

They worked together, and Sam’s mother and aunties were right – even though he made enough pies to feed the whole team, his food (and Sam’s Aunt Donna’s green chile cornbread) were in the oven baking well ahead of everyone else.

While he waited the 35 to 45 minutes for them to bake, he checked his phone and found a video message from Sigrid.

“Hi! It’s me! My contribution to team cooking day is a Norwegian fish stew, which will hopefully be edible.” She panned over the counter full of fresh veggies and herbs, as well as cartons of milk, cream, and broth.

Sigrid had tried to make the video look like the recipe videos on Facebook: showing the tasty-looking fresh produce, fingers snapping, then a bowl full of chopped veggies – ta-da! All seemed to go pretty well until the actual cooking part. She showed the pan with browned onions, “It said ‘until clear,’ but I think these onions have moved onto browned.” Sig heaved a sigh and James smiled.

“Ok, here, I’m adding some broth to scrape up the brown bits like on tv… wait, now my soup looks kinda brownish. The picture online shows sort of a creamy white-looking broth…” She groaned and mumbled, “This is why people eat at restaurants,” followed by a disgusted sigh.

“All right… in go the crunchy vegetables and potatoes. Mmmm… who doesn’t love celeriac? Right?” She peeked into the frame and winked. “Aaand the rest of the liquids…. Worcestershire sauce! Smells terrible, but tastes good. Don’t leave it out!”

Sigrid looked to the side, apparently reading through her recipe and frowned again. “Reduce heat to medium? What if it’s already medium?” She glanced back at the counter where there were still some other ingredients and chopped up some parsley and added that to the pot, then looked at the recipe again. “Wait…. No.” Glancing in the pot, she sighed and muttered, “Well, fuck you, parsley…”

James smiled and tried not to laugh.

Sigrid looked around, “Now where…?” Her shoulders slumped. “Really? Come on….” She opened and closed the refrigerator, looked under the bag with what remained of the parsley. She glanced back at the camera, “No fish.” Panned the camera back to the pot of simmering soup, her voice in the background, “Fish stew.” Panning the counter again, “No fish.”

Aiming the camera at herself, looking directly into the frame, Sigrid said, “Restaurants, people. They’re a thing for a reason.”

When that video finished, James noticed he’d gotten another from Sigrid and started watching that one too. In this one, she was wearing her leather jacket and a knit beanie. “Hi krasavchik,” _handsome_. She smiled, “I don’t know if you remember or not, but I… we… used to write to each other during the war.” She smiled fondly and looked to the side, remembering, “I… bring this up today,” she sighed, “because all this cooking has me feeling nostalgic and I remembered writing to tell you that I couldn’t cook.”

She bit her lip, then looked back up at the camera. From the background, it looked like she was in a park somewhere. “When you wrote back, you said we could learn together. Or you’d figure it out… or we could just eat out all the time.”

Sigrid looked so wistful… he wanted to put his arm around her and pull her in close. She continued, “You were the only one who didn’t say, ‘oh, you’ll learn,’ or ‘you’ll change your mind,’ or something like that. Like maybe I was good enough the way I was.”

To the video, James murmured, “You were. _Are._ Always.”

Her eyes widened a fraction and the smile slipped, no longer looking at the camera, “Now you know some of what I’ve done, though. I… felt like I lied to you – not telling you about the other side of my job. But now you know, I think.”

 _Did she…?_ Did she think he didn’t want her anymore because she killed a few Nazis? _A few_ … from his personal knowledge of the mercenary, V, and what Clint had said a week or so ago… something about ‘stackin’ ‘em like cordwood…’ _a few_ might be minimizing a little.

The timer buzzed, and Sam’s mother showed him how to use a knife to check if the pies were cooked through since the toothpicks were in use elsewhere in the kitchen at the moment. Heads turned as the six pies and three pans of cornbread were removed from the oven. Sam’s Aunt Becky retrieved the green salad from the fridge and added the dressing, giving the whole thing a light toss while the pies and cornbread cooled enough to be cut.

James sliced the pies and served himself, Linda Wilson, Aunt Donna, and Aunt Becky. They stacked plates at the end of the table for anyone else who might like to help themselves. Their group had just finished serving themselves when Steve tried to relieve Mrs. Wilson of her plate.

She glared at him, “Excuse me?”

Steve shifted uncomfortably, “I’m sorry ma’am, I… just can’t let you eat that. Bucky’s no cook and…” His voice trailed off as she continued to glare.

Linda Wilson opened her mouth, ready to read Steve Rogers the riot act. James put his hand on her arm and asked, “Can I?”

She studied him a moment, then smiled and nodded, “You go right ahead, son.”

James got up and stood by the plates, “Anybody want some?”

No one sprinted forward, but Natasha elbowed Clint and they both walked over, somewhat stoically. James plated their pie and Sam’s aunts served the sides.

Nat tried hers first – the first person to actually get to taste the ham, cheese, and vegetable pie. Her face lit up, “Yeto vkusno, Yasha!” _It’s delicious_ … She held out her plate for a second piece to make sure she got seconds.

He served Wanda, who to her credit, had walked over to be next in line _before_ Natasha’s exclamation of delight. James gave her one slice and Wanda glanced at Natasha, then held up two fingers for a second piece, sitting down quietly between Clint and Mrs. Wilson.

Clint had finished buttering his cornbread, taken a bite and moaned with deep satisfaction. Nothing quite like oven-warm fresh cornbread steaming with melted butter. After the first bite of cornbread, Barton braved the pie. His eyes widened, mouth still full, he mumbled something that sounded like, “Ok, you’re officially in me and Nat’s Brunch Club.”

Linda Wilson fixed a stern look on her son, who was next, followed by Stark, Rhodes, and Banner all arriving in a clump, asking for two pieces each. By this time the cornbread and salad were being passed around the large table. Mrs. Wilson and her sisters had finished their first slice and asked for seconds. Mrs. Wilson also passed James’ plate back for a second slice to make sure he got another, though he hadn’t had a chance to try it yet.

Clint asked for thirds and Natasha had sneaked another slice before Phil Coulson got his plate (also two slices).

“Not bad, Robocop,” was all the praise he got from Stark, who then nodded to Clint, “Good call on adding him to Brunch Club.”

Nat spoke up, “I’m texting Sigrid to tell her you’re making pies for Brunch Club on Sunday.”

Steve stood like his feet were glued to the floor. The rest of the team sat around the table, eating, talking, joking – enjoying the meal. He looked sheepishly at his shoes and walked over. “There any for me?”

James folded his arms, there were ten pieces left total. “Depends.”

Steve met his eyes, “On?”

Rolling his eyes, James said, “On whether or not you take the stick outta your ass, pal.”

Clint choked mid-bite and Wanda had to thump him on the back until he stopped choking.

Steve’s mouth only open for the briefest of instants when James interrupted him, “I swear to God, Steve – if you tell me to watch my language like I’m twelve, you’ll be spendin’ the next couple weeks eatin’ through a straw.”

“What do you want me to say?” To his credit, Steve sounded like he meant it – nonconfrontational.

“I want you to say you’re sorry and then stop treatin’ me like a delinquent that can’t be trusted or somebody who doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together.”

Steve started, “I didn’t mean to…” then ran his fingers through his hair, “I’m sorry, Buck… I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

James felt his shoulders relax, “Yeah, I know… that’s why I put up with it so long. But it’s gotta stop, Stevie.”

Steve’s shoulders curled in and he nodded, chastised. Undoubtedly beating himself up over it now. James handed him a plate with three slices of pie – still hot enough for the cheese to string a little bit as they were served.

When Steve looked at him for an explanation, James responded, “One, I trust Nat’s opinion. Two, you’re a super-soldier with the metabolism to match. Three? All that guilt burns a _lot_ of calories, man.”

Steve frowned, replying as he walked away, trying to eat the first slice of pie with his fingers before he sat down, “I never liked you.” Then, surprised and impressed, “This _**is**_ really good.”

The meal a success, James put Sigrid’s first video on-screen since it was intended for everyone to the amusement of the greater crowd. He ate while everyone watched and talked. Natasha, Sam, Clint, and Sam’s family left the table first to make sure nothing was going awry in the kitchen while everyone else ate.

The rest of the afternoon, it was like some kind of pressure valve had been released. Instead of being competitive, somewhere along the line, the day had turned into something much more like a family gathering.

When he was fairly sure no one was paying attention, he asked FRIDAY for some help editing a video to send to Sigrid.

He hadn’t expected her to call right back though…. He managed to answer at least, “Hi.”

“Hi yourself. So, all your worrying was for nothing?” She sounded so caring and proud of him – with a smattering of told-you-so.

“Yeah, guess so.” Then James remembered her other video. “Speaking of worrying… why’d you look so sad in the other video you sent?”

Sigrid murmured, “I just… I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.” Sniffling, “I didn’t think it’d be fair to thrust that on you like who you are _now_ owed me something for who you were _then_.” Her voice cracked, “But the you then never would’ve sent me that Michael Myers photo,” giggling through her sniffles. “Loved you then, and I love you now, mon cher. Mon rêve.” _My dear. My dream._

“What’re all these sniffles for, moya milashka?” _My cutie._

She mumbled, “I dunno…,” then sighing, Sigrid added, “I guess I’ve been worried about telling you we had a past together if you didn’t remember it… and…”

“Can I interrupt for a second?”

“Go ahead.” Sigrid sounded a little bit relieved.

“I’m starting to remember some things. Least I think so.” James took a deep breath, “And… um… I’ve had a couple of dissociative episodes the past couple of weeks.”

“I’m not sure what that means.” She sounded apologetic.

He ran his fingers through his hair, “Um… kind of like the Soldier takes over for a little bit. Sometimes I remember what happened and sometimes I don’t. He’s got most of the memories of you. Bought everybody at the Compound skis?”

Sigrid laughed, “I love skiing.”

“Stark said you’re the goddess of skiing.”

Now she sounded embarrassed, “Well, kind of, yeah… I guess.”

“And you’re crying because your World War II sweetheart – alive, but with serious post-war issues might be upset because you’ve been hiding that you’ve been secretly killing off the people who tortured him for seventy years?”

“It sounds dumb when you say it like that…” James could almost see Sigrid’s pout.

He lowered his voice, “Wanna know something?”

“Hm?”

“I think he – the Soldier, I mean – remembers you because you kept us safe in cryo. No one ever hurt us there. The cold always protected us.”

He thought he heard a muffled sob on the other end of the phone line, so James went on, “Don’t cry sweetheart…” He was messing this up. “Please don’t cry. I’m tryin’ to say I love you too… I’m just messin’ it up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this far! (And for being so patient!!) :D I can't believe we're almost to the end!! 0.o 
> 
> Drop a line - let me know what you think! There's still room for suggestions! :D
> 
> The [Fish Stew recipe](https://www.saveur.com/article/Recipes/Norwegian-Cod-Vegetable-Chowder).


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